← catalogue

A Charming Fellow, Volume III

by Frances Eleanor Trollope · English · Gutenberg #35430 · 386,602 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Charming Fellow, Volume III
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: A Charming Fellow, Volume III

Author: Frances Eleanor Trollope


        
Release date: February 28, 2011 [eBook #35430]
                Most recently updated: November 10, 2011

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35430

Credits: E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://www.archive.org/details/americana)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHARMING FELLOW, VOLUME III ***


E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)



Note: Project Gutenberg also has the other two volumes of this
      novel.
      Volume I: see https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35428
      Volume II: see https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35429


      Images of the original pages are available through
      Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
      http://www.archive.org/details/charmingfellow03trol





A CHARMING FELLOW.

by

FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPE,

Author of "Aunt Margaret's Trouble," "Mabel's Progress," etc. etc.

In Three Volumes.

VOL. III.







London:
Chapman and Hall, 193, Piccadilly.
1876.

Charles Dickens and Evans,
Crystal Palace Press.




A CHARMING FELLOW.




CHAPTER I.


There was a "scene" that evening at Ivy Lodge--not the less a "scene" in
that it was conducted on genteel methods. Mrs. Algernon Errington
inflicted on her husband during dinner a recapitulation of all her
wrongs and injuries which could be covertly hinted at. She would not
broadly speak out her meaning before "the servants." The phrase shaped
itself thus in her mind from old habit. But in truth "the servants" were
represented by one plump-faced damsel in a yellow print gown, into which
her person seemed to have been inserted in the same way that bran is
inserted into the cover of a pincushion. She seemed to have been stuffed
into it by means of considerable force, and with less reference to the
natural shape of her body than to the arbitrary outlines of the case
made for it by a Whitford dressmaker.

This girl ministered to her master and mistress during dinner, pouring
water and wine, changing knives and plates, handing vegetables, and not
unfrequently dropping a spoon or a sprinkling of hot gravy into the laps
of her employers. She had succeeded to Slater, who resigned her post
after a trial of some six weeks' duration. Castalia, in despair at this
desertion, had written to Lady Seely to send her a maid from London
forthwith. But to this application she received a reply to the effect
that my lady could not undertake to find any one who would suit her
niece, and that her ladyship thought Castalia had much better make up
her mind to do without a regular lady's-maid, and take some humbler
attendant, who would make herself generally useful.

"I always knew Slater wouldn't stay with you," wrote Lady Seely; "and
you won't get any woman of that kind to stay. You can't afford to keep
one. Your uncle is fairly well; but poor Fido gives me a great deal of
unhappiness. He eats nothing."

Not by any means from conviction or submission to the imperious advice
of Lady Seely, but under the yoke of stern necessity, Castalia had
consented to try a young woman of the neighbourhood, "highly
recommended." And this abigail, in her tight yellow gown, was the cause
of Mrs. Algernon's reticence during dinner. The poor lady might,
however, have spared herself this restraint, if its object were to keep
her servants in the dark as to domestic disagreements; for no sooner had
Lydia (that was the abigail's name) reached the kitchen, than she and
Polly, the cook, began a discussion of Mr. and Mrs. Algernon Errington's
private affairs, which displayed a surprising knowledge of very minute
details, and an almost equally surprising power of piecing evidence
together.

When Lydia was gone, Algernon lit a cigar and drew up his chair to the
fireside, where he sat silent, staring at his elegantly-slippered feet
on the fender. Castalia rose, fidgeted about the room, walked to the
door, stopped, turned back, and, standing directly opposite to Algernon,
said querulously, "Do you mean to remain here?"

"For the present, yes; out of consideration for you. You dislike me to
smoke in the drawing-room, do you not?"

"Why should you smoke at all?"

Algernon raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, crossed one leg
over the other, and made no answer. His wife went away, and sitting down
alone on a corner of the sofa in her little drawing-room, cried bitterly
for a long time.

She was made to raise her tear-stained face by feeling a hand passed
gently over her hair. She looked up, and found her husband standing
beside her. "What's the matter, little woman?" he asked, in a
half-coaxing, half-bantering tone, like one speaking to a naughty
child, too young to be seriously reproved or argued with.

Now, although Castalia was haughty by education and insolent by temper,
she had very little real pride and no dignity in her character. To be
noticed and caressed by Algernon was to her a sufficient compensation
for almost any indignity. There was but one passion of her nature which
had any chance of resisting his personal influence, and that passion had
never yet been fully aroused, although frequently irritated. Her
jealousy was like a young tiger that had never yet tasted blood.

"What's the matter, little woman?" repeated Algernon, seating himself
beside her, and putting his arm round her waist. She shrugged her
shoulders fretfully, but at the same time nestled herself nearer to his
side. She loved him, and it put her at an immense disadvantage with him.

"Don't you mean to vouchsafe me an answer, Mrs. Algernon Ancram
Errington?"

"Oh, I daresay you're very sorry that I am Mrs. Errington. I have no
doubt you repent."

"Really! And is that what you were crying for?"

No reply.

"It looks rather as if you repented, madam!"

"Oh, you know I don't; unless you like other people better than you like
me!"

"'Other people' don't cry in my company."

"No; because they don't care for you. And because they're----they're
nasty, artful minxes!"

"Hear, hear! A charming definition! Castalia, you are really _impayable_
sometimes. How my lord would enjoy that speech of yours!"

"No, he wouldn't. Uncle Val would never enjoy what vexed me. My lady
might; nasty, disagreeable old thing!"

"There, I can agree with you. A vulgar kind of woman--though she is my
blood-relation--thoroughly coarse in the grain. But now that we have
relieved our feelings, and spoken our minds on that score, suppose we
converse rationally?"

"I don't want to converse rationally."

"Why not?"

"Because that means that you are going to scold me."

"Well--that might be highly rational, certainly; only I never do it."

"Well, but you'll manage to make out that I'm in the wrong and you're in
the right, somehow or other."

"Cassy, I want you to write a letter."

"A letter? Whom do you want me to write to?"

Her tears were completely dried, and she looked up at him with a faint
smile on her countenance, which, however, looked rueful enough, with red
nose and swollen eyes.

"You must write to my lord, and get him to help us with a little money."

Her face fell.

"Ask Uncle Val for money again, Ancram? It is such a short time since he
sent me some!"

"And to-morrow, at this hour, it will be 'such a short time' since you
had your dinner! Nevertheless, I suppose you will want another dinner."

"I--I don't think Uncle Val can afford it, Ancram."

"Leave that to him. Afford it? Pshaw!"

Algernon made the little sharp ejaculation in a tone expressive of the
most impatient contempt.

"But do we really--is it absolutely necessary for us to beg of my uncle
again?"

"Not at all. Do just as you please," answered her husband, rising and
walking away from the sofa to a distant chair.

Castalia's eyes followed him piteously.

"But what can I say?" she asked. "What excuse can I make? I hate to
worry Uncle Val. It isn't as if he had more money than he knew what to
do with. And if Lady Seely knew about his helping us, she would lead him
such a life!"

"Do as you please. It would be a thousand pities to worry your uncle.
Let all the worry fall on me."

He took up a book and threw himself back in his chair as if he had
dismissed the subject.

"I don't know what to do!" exclaimed Castalia, with fretful
helplessness. At length, after sitting silent for some time twisting her
handkerchief backwards and forwards in her fingers, she got up and
crossed the room to her husband's chair.

"Ancram!" she said softly.

"Eh? I beg your pardon!" looking up with an appearance of great
abstraction, as if the perusal of his book had absorbed all his
attention.

"I wish to do what will please you. I only care to please you in the
world. But--can't you explain to me a little better why I must write to
Uncle Val?"

Explain! Of course he would! He desired nothing better. He had brought
her to a point at which encouragement was needed, not coldness. And with
the singular flexibility that belonged to him, he was able immediately
to plunge into an animated statement of his present situation, which
sufficed to persuade his hearer that no course of conduct could be so
desirable, so prudent--nay, so praiseworthy, as the course he had
suggested.

To be sure the details were vague, but the general impression was vivid
enough. If Algernon's pictures were a little inaccurate in drawing, they
were at least always admirably coloured. And the general impression was
this: that there never had been a person of such brilliant abilities and
charming qualities as Algernon Ancram Errington so unjustly consigned
to obscurity and poverty. And no contributions to his comfort, luxury,
or well-being were too much to expect and claim from the world in
general, and his wife's relations in particular. Common honesty--common
decency almost--would compel Lord Seely to make all the amends in his
power for having placed Algernon in the Whitford Post-office. And there
was an insinuation very skilfully and delicately mixed with all the
seemingly unstudied and spontaneous outpourings of Algy's conjugal
confidence--an insinuation which affected the flavour of the whole, as
an accomplished cook will contrive to mingle garlic in a ragoût, never
coarsely obtrusive, and yet distinctly perceptible--to the effect that
the hand of Miss Castalia Kilfinane had been somewhat officiously thrust
upon her charming husband; and that the family owed him no little
gratitude for having been kind enough to accept it.

Poor Castalia had an uneasy feeling, at the end of his fluent discourse,
that Algernon had been a victim to her great relations, and, in some dim
way, to herself. But the garlic was so admirably blended with the whole
mass, that it was impossible for her to pick it out, or resent it, or do
anything but declare her willingness to help her husband by any means in
her power.

"Why, my dear girl, it is as much for your sake as for mine! And as to
the necessity for it, I must tell you what Minnie Bodkin said to me
to-day. Minnie is an excellent creature, full of friendly feeling--a
little too conceited and fond of lecturing" (Castalia's face
brightened); "but much must be excused to an afflicted invalid, who
never meets her fellow-creatures on equal terms."

Castalia looked almost happy. But she said, "As to her affliction, it
seems to me that she has been growing much stronger lately."

"Yes; I am glad to think so too. But let the best happen that can be
hoped--let the disease, that has kept her helpless on her couch all
these years, be overcome--still she must always be so lame as to make
her an object of pity."

"Poor thing! I daresay it does warp her mind a good deal. What did she
say to you?"

Algernon recapitulated a part of Minnie's warnings, but gave them such a
turn as to make it appear that the greatest wrath and impatience of the
Whitford tradesmen were directed against his wife. "They have a narrow
kind of provincial prejudice against you, Cassy, on account of your
being a 'London fine lady.' Me they know; and, in their great
condescension, are pleased to approve of."

"Oh, everybody likes you better than me, of course," answered Castalia,
simply. "But I don't care for that, if you will only like me better
than anybody."

The genuine devotion with which this was said would have touched most
men. It might have touched Algernon, had he not been too much engrossed
in mentally composing the rough draft of Castalia's letter to her uncle,
and putting his not inconsiderable powers of plausible persuasion to the
task of making it appear that his wife's personal extravagance was the
chief cause of their need for ready money.

"Don't tell him that I even know of your writing. My lord will be more
willing to come down handsomely if he thinks it's for you only, Cassy,"
said Algernon, as he drew up his wife's writing-table for her, placed a
chair, opened her inkstand, and performed several little acts of
attention with a really charming grace and gallantry.

So Castalia, writing almost literally what her husband
dictated--(although he kept saying at every sentence, "My dear child,
you ought to know best how to address your uncle;" "Well, I really don't
know, but I think you might put it thus;" and so forth)--completed an
appeal to Lord Seely to anticipate by nearly a quarter the allowance he
continued to make her for her dress out of his private purse, and, if
possible, to increase its amount.

One such appeal had already been made and responded to by a gift of
money. It had been made immediately after the arrival of the
newly-married couple in Whitford, on the ground of the unforeseen
expenses attendant on installing themselves in their new habitation. In
answering it Lord Seely had written kindly, but with evident disapproval
of the step that had been taken. "I cannot, Castalia," he said, "bid you
keep anything secret from your husband, and yet I can scarcely help
saying that I wish he did not know of the cheque I inclose. I fear he is
disposed to be reckless in money matters; and nothing encourages such a
disposition more than the idea that aid can be had from friends for the
asking. Ancram will recollect a serious conversation I had with him the
evening before your marriage, and I can only now reiterate what I then
assured him of--that it will be impossible for me to repeat the
assistance I gave him on that occasion."

"What assistance was that, Ancram?" asked Castalia, who knew not a word
of the matter.

"Oh, I believe my lord made me the munificent present of two pair of
breeches, and an old coat and waistcoat, or so."

"Made you a present of an old coat and breeches! What on earth do you
mean?"

"I mean that he paid a twopenny outstanding tailor's bill for me. And he
writes now as if he had conferred the most overwhelming obligation."

The fact was that Lord Seely had discharged a great number of Algernon's
debts; all of them, as his lordship imagined. But there was clearly no
need of troubling Castalia with these details.

When the letter was finished and sealed, Castalia still sat musingly
tracing unmeaning figures with the point of her pen on the
blotting-book. At length she said with some hesitation, "Ancram, how is
it that we spend so much money? I don't think I am very extravagant."

"'So much money!' Good Heavens, Castalia--but you really have no
conception of these things. Our whole income, and twice our income, is a
miserable pittance. The Dormers pay their butler more."

She was again silent for a little while. Then she said, "Isn't there
anything we could do without?"

Her husband looked at her in astonishment. It was a quite unexpected
suggestion on Castalia's part. "Could you be kind enough to point out
anything?" he asked drily. She looked somewhat cast down by his tone,
but answered, "There's that last case of wine from town--the Rhine wine.
Don't you think we might send it back unopened, and do with a bottle of
sherry, now and then, from the 'Blue Bell?' Your mother finds that very
good."

"Pshaw!" with the accustomed sharp, impatient contempt. "My mother knows
no more about wine than a baby. To drink bad wine is absolutely to
poison oneself. I can't do it, and I don't mean to let you do it,
either. And when one knows that it is only a question of a few months,
more or less, and that directly I get a better berth these greedy
rascals will be paid their extortionate bills in full--positively,
Castalia, it seems to me childish to talk in that way!"

It was the same with one or two other suggestions of retrenchment she
ventured to make. Algernon showed conclusively (conclusively enough to
satisfy his hearer, at all events) that it would not do--that it would
be absolutely imprudent, on their part, to make any open retrenchment.
All these sharks would come round them at once, if they smelt poverty.
"I know these gentry better than you do, Castalia," said he. "There is
no way of getting on with them except by not being in a hurry to pay
them. Nothing spoils tradespeople so much as any over-alacrity of that
kind. They immediately conclude that you can't do without them!"

"Oh, they're disgustingly impudent creatures, these Whitford
tradespeople! There is no doubt in the world about that," said Castalia,
in perfect good faith. "Only I thought you seemed to be made uneasy by
what Miss Bodkin said to you on the subject."

"To be sure! But, my dear girl, your method would never answer! I do
want money, very badly. And I do hope and expect--as I think I have some
right to do--that my lord will assist us without delay, and without
making one of his intolerable prosy preachments on the occasion. And we
must have a few pounds to go on with, and stop the mouths of these
rapacious rascals. But no retrenchment, Castalia! No 'Blue Bell' sherry!
Good Heavens, it makes one bilious to think of it! I really cannot
sacrifice my digestion to advance the commercial prosperity of Whitford.
And when one considers it, why should we destroy our peace of mind by
worrying ourselves? Lord Seely has got us into this scrape, and Lord
Seely must get us out of it. _Voilà tout!_"

After that the rest of the evening was spent very harmoniously. Algernon
could not repress two or three prodigious yawns, but he politely
concealed them. And when Castalia went to her pianoforte, he woke up at
the conclusion of an intricate fantasia quite in time to thank her for
the performance, and to praise its brilliancy. In a word, so agreeable
an evening, Castalia told herself, she had not passed for many weeks,
although it had certainly begun in an unpromising way. So softened was
she, indeed, by this gleam of happiness, that several times she was on
the point of making a confession to her husband, and entreating his
forgiveness. But she could not bear to risk bringing a cloud over the
light of his countenance, which was the only sunshine in her life.
"Ancram would be so angry!" was a thought that checked back words which
were on her lips a dozen times. "And since the matter is all over, and
he need never know anything about it, I may as well hold my tongue."

It needed, however, no confession on Castalia's part to convince
Algernon that she had opened his secretaire, and taken Minnie Bodkin's
letter thence, instead of having found it lying open on his table, as
she had said. For on the next morning, when he entered his private room
at the office, his first action was to try the little secretaire, which
was unlocked. He then remembered that, after having secured that
repository of his private papers, he had re-opened it, to throw Minnie's
note into a drawer of it; and, having been called away at that moment,
must have forgotten to re-lock it.

"Damnably provoking!" muttered Algernon to himself as he stood looking
at the little cabinet with gloomy, anxious brows. Then, having first
bolted the door of his room, he made a thorough search throughout the
secretaire. "Nothing disturbed! She probably flew off to Dr. Bodkin's
house directly after reading Minnie's note; and that lay in the little
empty drawer right in front. It would be the first she opened."

Then he sat down in a mighty comfortable armchair, which was placed in
front of an official-looking desk, and meditated so deeply that he
forgot to unbolt the door, and was roused by Mr. Gibbs tapping at it,
and desiring to speak with him on business.




CHAPTER II.


Mr. Gibbs's errand was not a pleasant one. He came to speak to his chief
of complaints that had reached the office as to lost and missing
letters. The most serious case was that of a man living in the
neighbourhood of Duckwell, who complained that a money letter had never
reached him, although it had been posted in Bristol three weeks back.
Some inquiries had previously been made, but without result. And now the
Duckwell man declared he would make a fine fuss, and bring the matter
before the very highest authorities, if his letter were not forthcoming.

"What does the bumpkin mean, Gibbs?" asked Algernon, impatiently tapping
with his fingers on the desk before him.

"I'm afraid he'll give us a deal of bother, sir," returned Mr. Gibbs
slowly. "And I can't understand what has come of the letter. It's very
awkward."

"Very awkward for him, if he really has lost his money. But I should not
be surprised to learn that it never was posted at all."

"Humph! I don't know. He swears that the sender at Bristol can prove
that it was posted."

"And why the deuce do people go on sending bank-notes by post, without
the least care or precaution? One must have been connected with a
post-office in order fully to appreciate the imbecility of one's
fellow-creatures!"

"I don't know that it was bank-notes, sir. It may have been a cheque."

"Oh, depend upon it, it was whatever was stupidest to send, and most
calculated to give trouble; if it was sent, that is to say! If it was
sent!"

"I can't call to mind such a thing happening for twenty years back; not
in this office. But lately there seems to be no end to things going
wrong."

"Well, don't distress yourself about it, Gibbs. I have full reliance on
you in every way."

"Oh no, sir! It is unpleasant, but I don't know that I specially need
distress myself about it."

"Only because you have had the uncontrolled management of the office,
Gibbs. And it is too bad, when one has worked so conscientiously as you
have, to be worried by blundering bumpkins. I assure you, Gibbs, I am
constantly singing your praises to Lord Seely. I tell him frankly, that
if it were not for you, I don't know in the least how I should fulfil my
onerous duties here! When I'm removed from this place, the powers that
be won't have far to look for my successor."

This was the most explicit word that had yet fallen from Mr. Errington
on the subject of his subordinate's promotion. And it decidedly
gratified Mr. Obadiah Gibbs. Nevertheless, that steady individual was
not so elated by the prospect held out to him as to dismiss from his
mind the business he had come to speak about. "It is the most
unaccountable thing!" said he. "Three or four cases of the kind within
two months! And up to that time no office in the kingdom bore a better
character than Whitford. I hope the thing may be cleared up. But it is
next to impossible to trace a stolen letter. The Duckwell man--Heath,
his name is; Roger Heath--says he is determined to complain to the
Postmaster-General. I suppose we shall be having the surveyor coming to
look after us. You see, it isn't like a solitary case. That's the worst
of it. There's what you may term an accumulation, sir."

Whilst Mr. Gibbs poured forth his troubled mind in these and many more
slow sentences, Algernon rose, took his hat, brushed it lightly with his
glove, put it on, and was evidently about to depart. Gibbs ventured to
lay his hand on his coat-sleeve to detain him. The clerk was not
satisfied that the matter should be dismissed so lightly. It might not
be possible to do anything, truly; but (in common with a great many
other people) Mr. Obadiah Gibbs felt that, where efficacious action was
impracticable, it was all the more desirable to mark the gravity of an
unpleasant circumstance by copious talking of it. Life would become, in
some sort, too frivolous and easy if, when a matter clearly could not be
remedied, every one agreed to say no more about it! A vast deal of sage
eloquence would thus be choked and dammed up. And Mr. Gibbs, for his
special part, was conscious of having some reputation amongst his fellow
Wesleyans for a gift of utterance.

"I really don't know, sir, what to say to Roger Heath," he persisted.

"Oh--tell him inquiries will be made in the proper quarters."

"That, sir, has been said already. He has been here twice or thrice."

"Then tell him to go to the devil!" said Algernon, sharply jerking his
arm away from the clerk's grasp, and walking off.

The pious and respectable Mr. Gibbs shook his head disapprovingly at
this profane speech, and went back to his stool in the outer office with
a lowering brow.

Algernon walked along the High Street, and turned down a narrow lane
leading towards the river, and past one corner of the Grammar School.
The boys were just coming out of school with the usual shrill babble and
rush. A party of Dr. Bodkin's private scholars were on their way to Whit
Meadow.

"Good day, Ingleby," said Algernon, addressing the eldest of them, the
same lad who had been Rhoda's squire in the tea-room on the night of
Mrs. Algernon Errington's _début_ in Whitford society. "Where are you
off to?"

"We're going to have a row. I've got a boat, and we're going up the
river as far as Duckwell Reach. We have leave from the doctor. Deuce of
a job to get it, though!"

"Why?"

"Oh, because he's nervous about the river; thinks it dangerous, and all
that."

"Well, you know, Ingleby," said a younger boy, with much eagerness,
"lots of people have been drowned in that bit of the river between here
and Duckwell Reach."

"Lots of people! Gammon!"

"Well, two since I've been here!"

"Oh, I daresay. Well, if you funk it you needn't come. There's plenty
without you."

"You know I don't funk it for myself, Ingleby. I can swim."

"Yes, my friend. You wouldn't get into my boat if you couldn't. I'm on
honour with the doctor to take none but swimmers," said Ingleby, turning
to Algernon; "and of course that settles the matter. But, for my part, I
should have thought anybody but the quite small boys might walk out of
the Whit if they tumbled into it." "Oh no! You do our noble river
injustice. You are not a Whitfordian or you would know better than that.
There are some very ugly places between here and Duckwell Reach; places
where I wouldn't give much for your chance of getting out if once you
fell in, swimmer though you are. Good-bye. A pleasant row to you."

The boys pursued their way to the boat, and Algernon, turning off at
right angles when he reached the bottom of the lane, got into Whit
Meadow through a turnstile at the foot of the Grammar School playground.

There was a footpath through the meadow, and some fields beyond, which
made a pleasant walk enough in fine summer weather, and was then a good
deal frequented. But at this season it was damp, muddy, and lonely. The
day was fine, but the ground had been saturated by previous rains, and
that part of the meadow nearest to the margin of the river was almost a
swamp. The path continued to skirt the Whit for some miles, running in
the direction of Duckwell, and as Algernon walked along it he saw the
windings of the river shining in the sun, and presently there appeared
on it the boat full of schoolboys. One of them wore a scarlet cap, and
thus made a bright spot of colour in the landscape. The sound of their
young voices was carried across the water to Algernon's ears.

He stood for a minute or so at the gate of his own garden, which ran
down behind the house to the river path, and watched them. The thought
crossed his mind that, if any accident should occur to the boat at that
spot, there would be little chance of assistance reaching it quickly.
Ivy Lodge was the last house on that side of the river between Whitford
and Duckwell Reach. And on the willow-fringed shore opposite not a
living creature was to be seen, except some cattle grazing in the plashy
fields.

The whole scene--the vivid green of the marsh grass, the grey willows,
the boat with its wet oars flashing at regular intervals, the red-capped
boy, and the sound of the fresh, shrill laughter of the crew, all fixed
themselves on his mind with that vividness of impression which trivial
external things so often make upon a brain labouring with some inward
trouble.




CHAPTER III.


"What a state your boots are in!" exclaimed Castalia, pausing at the
foot of the stairs, which she happened to be descending as her husband
entered the house. "And why did you come by the back way?"

"I was worried, and did not wish to meet people and be chattered to. I
thought the meadow-path would be quiet, and so it was."

"Quiet! Yes; but how horribly muddy! Do change your wet boots at once,
Ancram!"

There was little need for her to insist on this proceeding. Algernon
hastened to his room, pulled off his wet boots, and desired that they
should be thrown away.

"They can be dried and cleaned, sir," said plump-faced Lydia, aghast at
this order.

"My good girl you may do what you please with them. I shall never wear
them again. Slight boots of that sort that have once been wet through
become shapeless, don't you understand? Take them away."

When the master of the house descended to the drawing-room, he found a
paper, squarely folded in the shape of a letter, lying in a conspicuous
position on the centre table. It was Mr. Gladwish the shoemaker's bill,
accompanied by an urgent request for immediate payment.

"More wall-paper, Cassy," said her husband, flinging himself on the
sofa.

"Do you know, Lydia tells me the man was quite insolent!" said Castalia.
"What can be done with such people? They don't seem to me to have the
least idea who we are!"

"Oh, confound the brutes! Don't let us talk about them!"

But Castalia continued to talk about them in a strain of mingled wonder
and disgust. She did not cease until dinner was announced, and Algernon
was by that time so thoroughly wearied by his conjugal _tête-à-tête_,
that he even received with something like satisfaction the announcement
that Castalia expected the Misses Rose and Violet McDougall to pass the
evening at Ivy Lodge.

"I daresay your mother will come too," said Castalia, "and bring Rhoda
Maxfield with her. I asked her."

"Rhoda? Why on earth do you invite that little Maxfield?"

"What is your objection to her, Ancram?"

"Oh, I have no objection to her in the world. But I should not have
thought she was precisely the sort of person to suit you."

"That's exactly what Miss Bodkin says! Miss Bodkin tried to keep Rhoda
apart from me, I am perfectly sure. And I can't fathom her motive. And
now you say the same sort of thing. However, I always notice that you
echo her words. But I don't intend to be guided by Miss Bodkin's likes
and dislikes. I haven't the same opinion of Miss Bodkin's wisdom that
the people have here, and I shall choose my friends for myself. It's
quite absurd, the fuss that is made in this place about Miss Bodkin;
absolutely sickening. Rose McDougall is the only person of the whole set
who seems to keep her senses on the subject."

"Rose McDougall will never lose her senses from admiration of another
woman," returned Algernon. And then the colloquy was broken up by the
arrival of the Misses McDougall, clogged and cloaked, and attended by
their maid-servant. After having exchanged greetings with these ladies,
Algernon withdrew, murmuring something about going to smoke his cigar.

"You'll not be long, Ancram, shall you?" said his wife, in a complaining
tone. But he disappeared from the room without replying to her.

"I'm so dreadfully afraid that I drive your husband away when I come
here, my dear," said Rose McDougall with a spiteful glance at Algernon's
retreating figure.

"Good gracious, no! He doesn't think of minding you at all."

"Oh, I daresay he does not mind me; does not think me of importance
enough to be taken any notice of. But I cannot help observing that he
always keeps out of the way as much as possible when I am spending an
evening here."

"Nonsense!" said Castalia, tranquilly continuing to string steel beads
on to red silk for the manufacture of a purse.

"You might as well say that it is I who drive Mr. Errington away, Rose,"
put in Violet.

"Not at all!" returned her sister, with sudden sharpness. "That's quite
a different matter."

"I don't see why, Rose!"

The true answer to this remark, in the elder Miss McDougall's mind,
would have been, "You are so utterly insignificant, compared with me,
that you are effaced in my company, and are neither liked nor disliked
on your own merits." But she could not quite say that, so she merely
repeated with increased sharpness, "That's a very different matter."

Rose McDougall was one of those persons who prefer animosity to
indifference. That any one should simply not care about her was a
suggestion so intolerable that she was wont to declare of persons who
did not show any special desire for her society, that they hated her.
She was sure Mr. A. detested the sight of her, and Miss B. was her
bitter enemy. But, perhaps, in Algernon's case, she had more reason for
declaring he disliked her than in many others. He did in truth object to
the sort of influence she exercised over Castalia. He knew that Castalia
was insatiably curious about even the most trifling details of his past
life in Whitford; and he knew that Miss McDougall was very capable of
misrepresenting--even of innocently misrepresenting--many circumstances
and persons in such a way as to irritate Castalia's easily-aroused
jealousy; and Castalia's easily-aroused jealousy was an element of
discomfort in his daily life. In a word, there had arisen since his
marriage a smouldering sort of hostility between him and Rose McDougall.
But he was far from conceiving the acrid nature of her feelings towards
him. For his part, he laughed at her a little in a playful way, and
contradicted her, and, above all, he did not permit her to bore him by
exacting any attention from him which he was disinclined to pay. But
there was no bitterness in all that. None in the world!

Only he did not reckon on the bitterness excited in Miss Rose's breast
by being laughed at and neglected. The graceful and charming way in
which the laughter and neglect were accomplished by no means mollified
the sting of them; a point which graceful and charming persons would do
well sometimes to consider, but to which they are often singularly
blind.

"And what have you been doing with yourself all day, Castalia dear?"
asked Violet with a great display of affection.

"Oh--what can one do with oneself in this horrid hole?"

"To be sure!" responded Violet. But she responded rather uncertainly. To
her, Whitford seemed by no means a horrid hole. She had been content
enough to live there for many years--ever since her uncle had brought
her and her sister from Scotland in their mourning clothes, and received
his orphan nieces into his home.

"Don't speak of it, my dear!" exclaimed Rose, on whom the reminiscences
of the years spent in Whitford wrought by no means a softening effect.
"What possessed Uncle James to stick himself down in this place, of all
places, I cannot conjecture. He might as well have buried us girls alive
at once."

"Oh, well, I suppose you have had time enough to get used to it," said
Castalia, coolly. "Violet, will you ring the bell? It is close to you.
Thank you.--Lydia," when the girl appeared, "where is your master?"

"In the dining-room, ma'am."

"What is he doing?"

"Smoking and reading, ma'am."

"Go and ask him to come here, with my love."

"How the woman worrits him! She doesn't leave him a minute's peace," was
Lydia's comment to the cook on this embassy.

"She worrits everybody, in her slow, crawley kind o' way; but I'm sorry
for her sometimes, too. It's a trying thing to care more for a person's
little finger than a person cares for your whole body and soul,"
returned Polly, who had a kind of broad good-nature and candour. But
Lydia felt no sympathy with her mistress, and maintained that it was all
her own fault then! What did she be always nagging at him for?--having
that pitiless contempt for other women's mistakes in the management of
their husbands which is not uncommon with her sex.

Some such thoughts as Lydia's probably passed through the minds of the
Misses McDougall, but, of course, that was not the time or place to
express them. They exerted themselves to entertain their hostess with a
variety of Whitford gossip, while Castalia--her attention divided
between the purse she was making and the drawing-room door, at which she
hoped to see her husband presently appear--merely threw in a languid
interjection now and then as her contribution to the conversation.

At length she rose, and flung the crimson and steel purse down on the
table.

"Do you want anything, dear?" asked the obliging Violet with officious
alacrity.

"No; I shan't be long gone. Sit still, Violet."

"She's gone to implore her husband to honour us with a little of his
society," whispered Rose, when Castalia had shut the door. "I'm certain
of it. More fool she!"

The sisters sat silent for a few minutes. Then they heard the door of
the dining-room open, as though Castalia were coming back, and the sound
of voices. Rose was seated nearest to the door, which was separated from
that of the little dining-room opposite by a very narrow passage, and
she distinctly heard Algernon say, "Pooh! The old girl doesn't want me."
And again, "Says I hate her? Nonsense! I look on her with the veneration
due to her years and virtues." And then Castalia said, "Well, she can't
help her years. Besides, that's not the question. You ought to come, for
my sake. It's very unkind of you, Ancram." After that there was a lower
murmur of speech, as though the speakers had changed their places in the
room, and Rose was able to distinguish no more.

When Mrs. Algernon Errington returned to the drawing-room, she found
Violet in her old seat near the pianoforte; but Rose had shifted her
position, and was standing near the window.

"What are you doing there, Rose? Enjoying the prospect?" asked Castalia.
The shutters were not closed, but, as the night was very dark, there
certainly did not seem to be any inducement to look out of the window.

"Can't you persuade your husband to come, dear? I'm so sorry!" said
Rose, turning round; and her sister looked up quickly at the sound of
her voice, which, to Violet's accustomed ear, betrayed in its
inflections suppressed anger. Her face, too, was crimson, and her little
light blue eyes sparkled with unusual brightness.

Castalia, however, noticed none of these things. "Oh, he'll come
presently," she said. "He really was finishing a cigar. I told him that
you were offended with him, and----"

"I offended with your husband? Oh dear no! Why on earth should I be? You
ought not to have said that, Castalia."

"Well, you thought he was offended with you, or something of the sort.
It's all the same," returned Castalia, with her air of weary
indifference. "And he says it's nonsense."

"My dear, I am only sorry on your account that he won't come. Really, to
myself, it matters very little; very little indeed. What a pity that
you have not some one to amuse him! We are none of us clever enough,
that is clear."

"Oh, you are quite mistaken if you think Ancram cares particularly for
clever women!" said Castalia, whose thoughts instantly reverted to
Minnie Bodkin. "Even Miss Bodkin, whom everybody declares to be such a
wonder of talent, bores him sometimes, I can tell you. Of course he has
known her from his childhood, and all that; but he said to me only
yesterday that she was conceited, and too fond of preaching. So you see!
I daresay, poor thing, she fancies all the time that she is enchanting
him by her wisdom."

"Dear me," said Violet timidly, and with a sort of strangled sigh. "I
think that, as a rule, gentlemen don't like any kind of women except
pretty women! Though, to be sure, Minnie is handsome enough if it wasn't
for her affliction."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of Minnie," said Rose, viciously twitching at her
sewing thread. "I meant it was a pity there was no one here who was
clever enough, and who thought it worth while, to play off pretty airs
and graces for Mr. Errington's amusement. That's the kind of cleverness
that attracts men. And your husband, my dear, was always remarkably fond
of flirting."

Violet opened her eyes in astonishment, and, from her place a little
behind Castalia, made a warning grimace to her sister; but Rose only
responded by a defiant toss of the head. Castalia's attention was now
effectually aroused, and although she still spoke in the querulous drawl
that was natural to her (or had become so from long habit), it was with
a countenance earnestly addressed to her interlocutor, instead of, as
hitherto, with carelessly averted eyes. "I never heard any one say
before that Ancram was fond of flirting," she said.

"I should have thought it was not necessary to hear it. You might see it
for yourself; unless, indeed, he is very sly about it in your presence.
He, he, he!"

"See it for myself? Why--there's nobody here for him to flirt with!"

This naïve ignoring of any pretensions on the part of her present guests
to be eligible for the purposes of flirtation was not lost on Rose.

"Not many who would flirt with a married man. No, I hope and believe
not! But there are many kinds of flirtation, you know. There's the soft
and sentimental, the shy, sweet sixteen style--little Miss Maxfield's
style, for instance."

"Rhoda!"

"Yes; that is her name, I believe. I have never been intimate with the
young person myself. Uncle James has always been very particular as to
whom we associated with. However, since you have taken her up, my dear,
I suppose she may be considered visitable."

"We have met her at Dr. Bodkin's, you know, Rose," put in Violet, who
was looking and listening with a distressed expression of face.

"Oh yes; I believe Minnie asked her there at first to please Algernon.
Minnie can be good-natured in that sort of way. But I don't know that it
was very judicious."

"Why should you suppose it was to please my husband that Rhoda was
invited to the Bodkins?" asked Castalia. "I don't see that at all. The
girl might have been asked to please Miss Bodkin. I daresay she had
heard of her from Mrs. Errington. Mrs. Errington is always raving about
her."

Rose smiled with tightly-closed lips, and nodded. "To be sure! Poor dear
Mrs. Errington--I mean no disrespect to your mother-in-law, Castalia,
who is really a superior woman, only in some things she is as blind as a
bat."

Castalia's sallow face was paler than ever. Her nostrils were dilated as
if she had been running fast. "You never told me a word of this before,"
she said.

"My dear creature," said Rose, looking full at Castalia for the first
time, "why, what was there to tell? The subject was led to by chance
now, and I had not the least idea that you did not know all Algy's old
love-stories. Everybody here--except, I suppose, poor dear Mrs.
Errington--knew of the boy-and-girl nonsense between him and that
little thing. But of course it never was serious. That was out of the
question."

"I don't believe it!" said Castalia, suddenly.

"Well, I daresay the thing was exaggerated, as so often happens. For my
part, I never could see what there was in the girl to make so many
people admire her. A certain freshness, perhaps; and some men do think a
great deal of that pink-and-white sort of insipidity."

"At all events, Ancram does not care about her now," said Castalia,
speaking in broken sentences, and twisting her watch-chain nervously
backwards and forwards in her fingers.

"Oh, of course not! I daresay he never did care about her in earnest.
But that sort of philandering is a little dangerous, isn't it?"

"He does not like me to ask her to the house even."

"Doesn't he?"

"No; he has said so more or less plainly several times. He said so this
very evening."

"Did he, indeed? Well, I really am glad to hear it. I scarcely gave
Algy--Mr. Errington--credit for so much--prudence!"

"Mrs. Errington and Miss Maxfield," announced Lydia at the door of the
drawing-room.




CHAPTER IV.


Mrs. Errington advanced towards her daughter-in-law with her habitual
serene stateliness, and Rhoda followed her, modestly, looking very
pretty in a new dress, the delicate hue of which set off her fair
complexion to great advantage. Castalia received them much as usual;
that is to say, without displaying any emotion whatever. But when Mrs.
Errington took her daughter-in-law's hand, she exclaimed, "Good
gracious, Castalia, how cold you are! A perfect frog! And yet this
little room of yours is very warm; oppressively warm to one coming from
without."

"We find the temperature so comfortable here!" said Violet. "Dear
Castalia always has her rooms deliciously warm, we think."

"Perhaps, Violet, you are chilly by nature. Some constitutions are so.
For myself, I have a wonderful circulation. But it is hereditary. All my
branch of the Ancrams were renowned for it. I don't know, my dear
Castalia, whether my cousin, Lady Seely, has the same peculiarity?"

"I don't know, I'm sure."

"With us it was a well-known thing among the Faculty for miles around
Ancram Park. Our extremities were never cold, nor had we ever red noses.
I believe a red nose was absolutely unknown in our family. No doubt that
was part of the same thing; perfect circulation of the blood."

With that Mrs. Errington sat down tolerably near the fire and made
herself comfortable. "Where is my dear boy?" she asked after a little
while. "Not at that dreadful office I hope and trust!"

"He is at home," replied Castalia, slowly. "I asked him to come into the
drawing-room, and he said he would by-and-by."

"Oh, I daresay he will come now, dear," said Rose McDougall, without
raising her eyes from her sewing.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Errington to her daughter-in-law, "and if he
does come 'now' you must not be jealous."

The two sisters glanced at the good lady in quick surprise, and then at
Rhoda. Rhoda was looking, for the hundredth time, at a book of prints.
It was her usual evening's occupation at Ivy Lodge. Mrs. Errington
proceeded, placid, smiling, and condescending as ever: "You must not be
jealous, Castalia, if he does come directly he learns that his mother
is here. To be sure a wife ranks first. I have always acknowledged that;
and, indeed, insisted on it. I am sure it was my own case with poor dear
Dr. Errington, who would never have dreamed of putting any human being
into competition with me. Still, allowances must be made for the very
peculiar and devoted attachment Algy has always felt for me. He is, and
ever was, an Ancram to the core. And this kind of--one may say
romantic--affection for their mothers has always distinguished the
scions of our house from time immemorial. Good evening, my dear Algy. I
find our dear Castalia looking a little worn and ill, and I tell her she
keeps her rooms too hot. What do you say?"

Algernon had sauntered into the room during his mother's harangue,
delivered in the full mellow voice that belonged to her, and now bent to
kiss the worthy lady's cheek as he greeted her. It was a cool, firm,
rosy cheek. Indeed, Mrs. Errington's freshness and bloom were in
singular opposition to Castalia's sallow haggardness, and made the elder
lady look doubly buxom and buoyant by the force of contrast.

"You're flourishing, at all events, _chère madame_," said Algernon,
looking at his mother with unfeigned satisfaction. It was a relief to
him to see a contented, smiling, comfortable countenance. Nevertheless,
although agreeable to look upon, Mrs. Errington was apt to become a
little wearisome in point of conversation, and her dutiful son cast his
eyes round the circle in search of a pleasant seat wherein to bestow
himself. But his glance met no response. Rose McDougall had drawn near
his wife, and after very stiffly returning his bow, had ceased to take
any notice of him, markedly avoiding his eye, and keeping silence after
he had spoken. Violet was divided between listening to the elder Mrs.
Errington and watching her sister. Castalia was more lazy, more silent,
more indifferent than usual. Algernon was as unaccustomed as a spoiled
child to be taken no notice of. He to stand among those women as a
person of secondary importance, not greeted, not flattered, not smiled
upon!

He looked across the group round the fire to Rhoda, who happened to
raise her eyes at that moment, and being taken by surprise at meeting
his, dropped them hastily, with a vivid blush. Rhoda's blushes were as
unmeaning as the smiles of an infant. The most trivial cause made her
change colour, as Algernon very well knew. But at least the soft bright
pink hue on pretty Rhoda's cheek showed some emotion, however slight or
transient, at the sight of him. And, moved partly by a boyish, pettish
resentment against the others, partly by the desire to hear a pleasant
voice and pleasant words, and look upon a pretty woman's face with its
delicate contour and fine subtle changes of tint, he walked across the
room and seated himself beside Rhoda Maxfield.

Castalia pushed her chair back out of the lamplight. "You can't see to
do your purse in that dark corner, Castalia," exclaimed Mrs. Errington.

"I don't want to do my purse. I'm sick of it."

"Naughty, fickle girl!" This was said playfully. Then in a loud whisper,
addressed to the McDougalls as well as to her daughter-in-law, Mrs.
Errington exclaimed, "Doesn't Rhoda look charming to-night? That pale
lilac is the very colour for her. Trying to skins that have the least
tinge of yellow in them, but she is so wonderfully fair! Dear me, it
reminds one of old times to see those two side by side. As children they
were always together."

No one responded. Violet McDougall fidgeted nervously on her chair and
cast an appealing look at her sister. She would have tried to lead Mrs.
Errington to talk of something else had she dared, but in Rose's
presence Violet never ventured to take the initiative; and, besides, she
was afraid of doing more harm than good, Mrs. Errington not being one of
those persons who take a hint easily. The silence of her three listeners
was no check to the worthy lady's eloquence. She continued to descant on
Rhoda's attractions, and graces, and good manners; she dropped hints of
the excellent opportunities Rhoda now had of "settling in life," only
that she was a little fastidious from long association with such refined
persons as the Erringtons, and had turned the cold shoulder to several
well-to-do wooers in her own rank of life; she related anecdotes of
Rhoda's early devotion to herself and her son, until Violet McDougall
muttered under her breath, in a paroxysm of nervous impatience, "One
would think the woman was doing it on purpose!"

Meanwhile Algernon was talking to Rhoda more freely and confidentially
than he had spoken to her for a long, long time. He was indulging in the
luxury of playing victim before a spectator whose pity would certainly
be admiring, not contemptuous. And, as he spoke, the old habit of
appealing to Rhoda, and confiding in Rhoda, and taking Rhoda's sympathy
for granted, resumed its power over him. There was no strain of
tenderness in his words. He said not a syllable that his wife and all
the world might not freely have listened to. He talked as a petted boy
might talk to an idolising sister--with a mixture of boastfulness and
repining, which he would have been ashamed to display to a man.

Rhoda listened with sorrowful interest. How could it be that Algernon
should have to endure all these troubles and mortifications? He was so
clever, so accomplished, so highly connected, had such great and
powerful relations! It appeared natural enough that folks like Mrs.
Thimbleby, and the Gladwishes, and even her brother Seth, should
sometimes be pressed for money. She herself, although she had never
known privation in her father's house, had, until within the last year
or so, been accustomed to the most rigid economy--not to say
parsimony--and it had never cost her a care. But that Algernon Errington
should desire money for various purposes, and not be able to get it,
seemed to her a very hard case.

But Algernon's note was not all of complaint. There were occasional
intervals in which he spoke of the brightness of his prospects
ultimately, when once he should have tided over his present difficulties
and had got out of Whitford. And there were a few flourishes about his
social successes in town last year. In the indulgence of his
all-absorbing egotism, he seemed to forget that the girl beside him had
ever been--or had ever had either expectation or right to be--anything
more to him than the patient, admiring, sisterly, humble confidante on
whom he had relied for praise and sympathy from the time of his earliest
recollections, and who supplied him with the most delicious food for his
vanity, because unmingled with any doubt of its genuineness. No thought
of her feelings (save that they were kindly and admiring towards
himself) crossed his mind whilst he talked to her, bending down his head
and gesticulating slightly with his white, handsome hands.

But when his mother called to her, "Come, Rhoda, I think, we must be
going; I heard the carriage at the gate, child. You and Algy have been
having a famous long chat! Reminded you of old times, didn't it?"

When I say Algernon heard these words, a spark of manhood made his
cheeks tingle and his tongue stammer as he said, "I--I'm afraid I must
have been--boring you dreadfully, Rhoda?"

In truth he was surprised to find that he had spent the whole evening in
talking to Rhoda about himself. He glanced quickly at his wife, but she
was occupied with the Misses McDougall. So occupied was she that she
hardly returned Mrs. Errington's "Good night," which negligence,
however, little ruffled that lady's equanimity. But when Rhoda
approached to take leave of Castalia, the latter moved aside so suddenly
that the movement might almost be called a start, and facing round, came
opposite to her own image in the mirror above the chimney-piece, with
Rhoda's fair image looking over its shoulder.

For one second, perhaps--it could scarcely have been more--the smooth
surface of the glass gave back the two women's faces: one youthful,
lily-hued, innocently surprised, with chestnut eyebrows and shining
chestnut curls, and tender rosy lips parted like those of a child; the
other yellow, worn full of fretful creases, with glittering eager eyes,
and a thin mouth set into a straight line, and yet over all the
undefinable pathos of a suffering spirit; behind the two, Algernon
looking into his wife's dark eyes and recognising something there that
he had never seen in them before.

In no longer time than it would take for a breath to dim the mirror all
these images were gone, and the cold shiny glass indifferently showed a
confusion of cloaks and shoulders and the back of a huge bonnet crowning
Mrs. Errington's majestic figure.

       *       *       *       *       *

From that day forth Castalia gave herself up to a devouring jealousy of
Rhoda. She spied her goings and comings; she watched her husband's face
when the girl was spoken of; she opened the letters that she found in
the pockets of his clothes; she lay in wait to surprise some proof, no
matter what, of a tender feeling on his part for his old love. In a
word, she pursued her own misery with more eagerness, vigilance, and
unflagging singleness of purpose than most people devote to the
attainment of any object whatsoever.




CHAPTER V.


The discovery of Minnie Bodkin's note in Algernon's secretaire at the
office had incited Castalia to make some other attempts to pry into that
depository of her husband's papers. She made excuses to step into the
post-office whenever she had any reason for thinking Algernon was
absent. Sometimes it was with the pretence of wishing to see him,
sometimes on the plea of wanting to rest. She had learned that her
husband frequently went into the "Blue Bell," to have luncheon, in the
middle of the day; and that, from one cause or another, the Whitford
Post-office was not really honoured with so much of his personal
superintendence as she had been led to suppose. And this again was a
fertile source of self-tormenting. Where was he, when he was not at the
office?

It whetted her suspicious curiosity to find the secretaire always
carefully locked, ever since her discovery of Miss Bodkin's note there.
She now wished that she had searched it thoroughly when she had the
opportunity, instead of hastening off to Dr. Bodkin's house, after
having read the first letter she came upon. But her feelings at that
time had been very different from what they now were. She had been
nettled, truly, and jealous of any private consultation between Minnie
Bodkin and her husband; hating to think that he could trust, and be
confidential with, another woman than herself, but not distinctly
suspecting either Minnie or Algernon of any intent to wrong her. Miss
Bodkin loved power, and influence, and admiration, and Castalia wished
no woman to influence Algernon, or to be admired by him for any
qualities whatsoever, except herself; but all her little envious
resentments against Minnie had been mere pinpricks compared with the
cruel pangs of jealousy that now pierced her heart when she thought of
Rhoda Maxfield.

That secretaire! It seemed to have an irresistible attraction for her
thoughts. She even dreamt sometimes of trying to open it, and finding
fresh fastenings arise more and more complicated, as she succeeded in
undoing one lock after the other. It was not Algernon's habit to lock up
anything belonging to him. There must be some special reason for his
doing so in this case! And to Castalia's jaundiced mind it seemed that
the special reason could only be a desire to keep his letters secret
from her. She grew day by day more restless. The servants at Ivy Lodge
remarked with wonder their mistress's frequent absences from home. She,
who had so dreaded and disliked walking, was now constantly to be seen
on the road to the town, or on the meadow-path by the river. This kind
of exercise, however, merely fatigued without refreshing her, and she
became so lean and haggard, and her eyes had such a feverish glitter,
that her looks might have alarmed anyone who loved her, and witnessed
the change in her.

"There she goes again!" exclaimed Lydia to her fellow servant, as she
watched her mistress down the garden-path, behind the house, one
afternoon. "She can't bide at home for an hour together now!"

"She wears herself to the bone," said Polly, shaking her head.

"She wears other folks to the bone, and that's worse," returned the
pitiless Lydia.

Meanwhile Castalia had passed out of the little wicket-gate of her
garden into the fields, and so along the meadow-path towards Whitford.
She made her way along the path resolutely, though with a languid step.
The ground was hardened by recent frost, and the usually muddy track was
dry. At the corner of the Grammar School playground she turned up the
lane towards the High Street, keeping close to the wall of the Grammar
School, so as to be out of view of any from the side windows. Before she
quite reached the High Street she caught sight of Mr. Diamond, walking
briskly along in the direction of his lodgings. He did not see Castalia,
or did not choose to see her; for, although she had once or twice
saluted him in the street, she had on another occasion regarded him with
her most unrecognising stare, and Matthew Diamond was not a man to risk
enduring that a second time. But Castalia quickened her step so as to
intercept him before he crossed the end of Grammar School Lane.

"Mr. Diamond!" she said almost out of breath.

"Madam!"

Diamond raised his hat and stood still, in some surprise.

"Would you be kind enough--do you happen to know whether Mr. Errington
has left the post-office? You must have passed the door. You might have
seen him coming out."

"I am sorry, madam, that I cannot inform you."

"You--you haven't seen him anywhere in the town?"

"No; I have only just left the Grammar School. Have you any further
commands?"

He asked the question after a slight pause, because Castalia remained
standing exactly across his path, glancing anxiously up and down the
High Street, and apparently oblivious of Diamond's existence.

"Oh no! I beg your pardon," she answered, moving aside. As she did so
young Ingleby came up, and was about to pass them when Diamond touched
him on the shoulder and said, "Ingleby, have you chanced to see Mr.
Errington?"

"Yes, sir; I saw him going down the High Street not two minutes ago,
close to old Maxfield's shop. Do you want him, Mrs. Errington? I can
easily catch him if I run."

"No, no, no! Don't go! You must not go after him."

She walked away without any word or sign of farewell, leaving Diamond
and the boy looking after her in surprise.

"That is the most disagreeable woman I ever came across!" exclaimed
Ingleby, with school-boy frankness. "I hate her stuck-up airs. But
Errington is such a capital fellow----! I'd do anything for him."

Diamond did not choose to discuss either the husband or the wife with
young Ingleby, but he said to himself, as he pursued his homeward way,
that Mrs. Errington's manner had been not only disagreeable but very
strange.

Castalia reached the office and walked in. She entered the inner part
that was screened off from the public, and passed Mr. Gibbs, behind his
desk, without any recognition. She was about to enter Algernon's private
room at the back, when Gibbs, rising and bowing, said "Did you want
anything, ma'am? Mr. Errington is not there."

"Oh! I'll go in and sit down."

Gibbs looked uneasy and doubtful, and presently made an excuse to follow
her into the room. Her frequent visits to the office of late by no means
pleased Mr. Obadiah Gibbs.

"I didn't know how the fire was," said he, poking at the hot coals, and
looking furtively at Mrs. Errington.

She was seated in her husband's chair in front of his desk. The little
secretaire stood on a table at one side of it.

"I'm afraid Mr. Errington may not be back very soon," said Gibbs.

"Do you know where he's gone?"

"Not I, ma'am."

"Does he often go away during business hours?"

"Why--I don't know what you would call 'often,' ma'am--I crave pardon. I
must attend to the office now; there is some one there." And Mr. Gibbs
withdrew, leaving the door half open.

Castalia shut it, and fastened it inside. Then she pulled out a bunch of
keys from her pocket, and tried them, one after the other, on the lock
of the secretaire. This time it was safely secured, and not one of her
keys fitted it. Then she opened the drawer of the table, and examined
its contents. They consisted of papers, some printed, some written, a
pair of driving gloves, and the cover of a letter directed to Algernon
Errington, Esq., in a woman's hand. Castalia pounced on the cover, and
thrust it into her pocket. After that, she looked behind the almanac on
the chimney-piece, and rummaged amongst a litter of newspapers, and torn
scraps of writing that lay in a basket. She was thus engaged when Mr.
Gibbs's hand was laid on the handle of the door, and Mr. Gibbs's voice
was heard demanding admission.

Castalia opened the door at once, and Mr. Gibbs came in with a look of
unconcealed annoyance on his face. He looked round the room sharply.

"What do you want?" asked Castalia.

"I want to see that all's right here, ma'am. I'm responsible."

"What should be wrong? What do you mean?" she demanded with so
coldly-haughty an air, that Gibbs was abashed. He felt he had gone too
far, and muttered an apology. "I wanted to see to the fire. I'm afraid
the coal-box is nearly empty. That old woman is so careless. I beg your
pardon, but Mr. Errington is very particular about the room being kept
warm."

Castalia deigned not to notice him or his speech. She drew her shawl
round her shoulders, and began to move away.

"Can I give any message for you to Mr. Errington, ma'am?"

"No----you need not mention that I came. I shall tell him myself this
evening."

As she walked down the High Street, she reflected on Mr. Gibbs's
unwonted rudeness of look and manner.

"He is told to watch me; to drive me away if possible; to prevent me
making any discoveries. I daresay they are all in a league together. I
am the poor dupe of a wife--the stranger who knows nothing, and is to
know nothing. We shall see; we shall see. I wonder where Ancram can have
gone! That boy spoke of seeing him near Maxfield's house."

At that moment she found herself close to it, and with a sudden impulse
she entered the shop, and, walking up to a man who stood behind the
counter, said, "Is Mr. Errington here?"

The man was James Maxfield, and he answered sulkily, "I don't know
whether he's gone or not. You'd better inquire at the private door."

Castalia's heart gave a great throb. "He has been here, then?" she said.

"You'd better inquire at the private door," was all James's response,
delivered still more surlily than before.

Castalia left the shop, and knocked at the door indicated to her by
James's thumb jerked over his shoulder. "Is Mr. Errington gone?" she
asked of the girl who opened the door.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did he--did he stay long?"

"About half an hour, I think."

"Is Mr. Maxfield at home?"

"No, ma'am; master is at Duckwell, and has been since Saturday."

"Who is it, Sally?" cried Betty Grimshaw's voice from the parlour, and
upon hearing it Castalia walked hastily away.

When she reached her own home again, between fatigue and excitement she
could scarcely stand. She threw herself on the sofa in her little
drawing-room, unable to mount the stairs.

"Deary me, missus," cried Polly, who happened to admit her, "why you're
a'most dead! Where-ever have you been?"

"I've been walking in the fields. I came round by the road. I'm very
tired."

"Tired? Nay, and well you may be if you took all that round! I thought
you'd happen been into Whitford. Lawk, how you're squashing your bonnet!
Let me take it off for you."

"I don't care; leave it alone."

But Polly would not endure to see "good clothes ruinated," as she said,
so she removed her mistress's shawl and bonnet--folding, and smoothing,
and straightening them as well as she could. "Now you'd better take a
drop o' wine," she said. "You're a'most green. I never saw such a
colour."

Despite her rustic bluntness, Polly was kind in her way. She made her
mistress swallow some wine, and put her slippers on her feet for her,
and brought a pillow to place beneath her head. "You see you han't got
no strength to spare. You're very weak, missus," she said. Then she
muttered as she walked away, "Lord, I wouldn't care to be a lady myself!
I think they're mostly poor creeturs."

Left alone, Castalia closed her eyes and tried to review the situation,
but at first her brain would do nothing but represent to her over and
over again certain scenes and circumstances, with a great gap here and
there, like a broken kaleidoscope.

Ancram had been to Maxfield's house, and it could not have been to see
the old man, who had been absent for some days. Perhaps Ancram was in
the habit of going thither! He had never said a word to her about it.
How sly he had been! How sly Rhoda had been! All his pretended
unwillingness to have Rhoda invited to Ivy Lodge had been a blind. There
was nothing clear or definite in her mind except a bitter, burning,
jealous hatred of Rhoda.

"We shall see if Ancram confesses to having been to that house to-day,"
said Castalia to herself. Then she went upstairs wearily. She was
physically tired, being weak and utterly unused to much walking, and
called Lydia to dress her and brush her hair. And when her toilet was
completed, she sat quite still in the drawing-room, neither playing,
reading, nor working--quite still, with her hands folded before her, and
awaited her husband.

She would first try to lead him to confess his visit to the Maxfields,
and, if that failed, would boldly tax him with it. She even went over
the very words she would say to her husband when he should descend from
his dressing-room before dinner.

But she could not foresee a circumstance which disturbed the plan she
had arranged in her mind. When Algernon returned to Ivy Lodge he did not
go into his dressing-room as usual, but marched straight into the
drawing-room, where Castalia was sitting.

"That's an agreeable sort of letter!" he said, flinging one down on the
table.

He was not in a passion--he had never been known to be in a passion--but
he was evidently much vexed. His mouth was curved into a satirical
smile; he drew his breath between his teeth with a hissing sound, and
nodded his head twice or thrice, after repeating ironically, "That's an
uncommonly agreeable sort of letter!" Then he thrust his hands deep into
his pockets, threw himself into an easy-chair, stretched his legs
straight out before him, and looked at his wife.

Castalia was surprised, and curious, and a little anxious, but she made
an effort to carry out her programme despite this unexpected beginning.
She remained motionless on the sofa, and said, with elaborate
indifference of manner, "Do you wish me to read the letter? I wonder at
your allowing me to know anything of your affairs."

"Read it? Of course! Why else did I give it to you? Don't be absurd,
Castalia. Pshaw!" And he impatiently changed the position of his feet
with a sharp, sudden movement.

Castalia's sympathy with his evident annoyance overcame her resentment
for the moment. She could not bear to see him troubled. She opened the
letter.

"Why it's from Uncle Val!" she exclaimed.

It was from her uncle, addressed to her husband, and was written in a
tone of considerable severity. To Castalia it appeared barbarously
cruel. Lord Seely curtly refused any money assistance; and stated that
he wrote to Algernon instead of to Castalia, because he perceived that,
although the application for money had been written by Castalia's hand,
it had not been dictated by her head. Lord Seely further advised his
niece's husband, in the strongest and plainest terms, to use every
method of economy, to retrench his expenditure, to refrain from
superfluous luxuries, and to live on his salary.

"The little allowance I give Castalia for her dress will be continued to
her," wrote his lordship. "Beyond that, I am unable to give either her
or you one farthing. Understand this, and act on it. And, moreover, I
had better tell you at once, as an additional inducement to be prudent,
that I see no prospect of procuring advancement for you in any other
department of his Majesty's service than the one you are in at present.
My advice to you is to endeavour to merit advancement by diligence in
the performance of your duties. You have abilities which are sure to
serve you if honestly applied. You are so young, that even after ten or
fifteen years' work you would be in the prime of all your faculties and
powers. And ten or fifteen years' good work might give you an excellent
position. As to Castalia, I cannot help feeling a conviction that her
discontent is chiefly reflected, and that if she saw you cheerful and
active in your daily business, she would not repine at her lot."

Castalia put the letter down on the table in silence. She was
astonished, indignant; but yet a little gleam of satisfaction pierced
through those feelings--a hope that she and her husband might be drawn
closer together by this common trouble. She would show him how well able
she was to endure this, and worse, if he would only love her and trust
her entirely. Even her jealousy for Rhoda Maxfield was mitigated for the
moment. All that fair-weather prettiness and philandering would be put
out of sight at the first growl of a storm. The wife would be the
nearest to him if troubles came. No pink-and-white coquetry could usurp
her right to suffer with him and for him, at all events.

"That's a pleasant sort of thing, isn't it?" said Algernon, who had been
watching her face as she read.

"It is too bad of Uncle Val, Ancram."

"Too bad! Yes; to put it mildly, it is too bad, I think. Too bad? By
George, I never heard of anything so outrageous!"

"Do you know, I think that my lady is at the bottom of it."

"I wish she was at the bottom of the Thames!"

"Ancram, I do feel sorry for you. It is such a shame to bury your
talents, and all that. But still, you know, it is true what he says
about your having plenty of time before you. And as to being poor--of
course it is horrid to be poor, but we can bear it, I daresay. And,
really, I don't think I should mind it so much if once we were
acknowledged to be quite, quite poor; because then it wouldn't matter
what one wore, and nobody would expect one to have things like other
people of one's rank."

Poor Castalia was not eloquent, but had she possessed the most fluent
and persuasive tongue in the world, it would not have availed to make
Algernon acquiesce in her view of the situation. She was for indignantly
breaking off all connection with relatives who could behave as Uncle Val
had behaved. It was not his refusing to advance more money (in her
conscience Castalia did not believe he could afford much assistance of
that kind), but his writing with such cruel coldness to Ancram--his
declaring that Ancram's case was not a hard one--his lecturing about
duties, and cheerful activity, and so on, just as if Ancram had been an
ordinary plodding young man instead of a being exceptionally gifted with
all sorts of shining qualities--these were offences not to be forgiven.
Castalia, for her part, would have endured any privation, rather than
beg more favours of Uncle Val and my lady.

But Algernon's feeling in the matter was by no means the same as
Castalia's. He dismissed all her attempts to express her willingness to
share his lot for good or ill as matters of no importance. She might
find it easy enough. Yes; the chief burthen would not fall on her! And,
besides, she did not at all realise what it would be to have to live on
the salary of the postmaster of Whitford, and to practise "rigid
economy," as my lord phrased it. It was really provoking to see the cool
way in which she took it for granted that matters would be mended by
their being "acknowledged to be quite, quite poor." "My dear Castalia,"
he said, with an air of superior tolerance, "you have about as much
comprehension of the actual state of the case as a canary-bird."

She paused, silently looking at him for a moment. Then she drew nearer
to him, and laid her arm round his shoulder. She wore a dinner-dress
with loose hanging sleeves, which were not becoming to her wasted frame.
But the poor thin arm clung with a loving touch to her husband, as she
said, "I know I am not so clever as you, Ancram, but I can see and
understand that if we haven't money enough to pay for things we must do
without them." (Castalia advanced this in the tone of one stating a
self-evident proposition.) "And I shan't care, Ancram, if you trust me,
and--and--don't put any one else before me. I never put any one before
you. I was fond of Uncle Val. I think he was the only person I really
loved in the world before I saw you. But if he treats you badly I shall
give him up."

Algernon shook off the clinging arm from his shoulder, not roughly, but
slightingly.

"What on earth are you talking about, Cassy? What do you suppose we are
to do? I tell you I must have some money, and you must write to your
uncle again without delay."

She drew back with a hurt sense of having been unappreciated. The tears
sprang to her eyes, and she put her hand into her pocket to take her
handkerchief. The hand fell on something that rustled, and was stiff. It
was the letter cover she had found in her husband's office that morning.
The touch of the crisp paper recalled not only the events of the
afternoon, but her own sensations during them. "Where were you this
afternoon?" she asked, suddenly checking her tears, as the dry, burning,
jealous feeling awoke again in her heart.

"Where was I? Where must I be? Where am I every afternoon? At the
office--confound it!"

"You were not there all the afternoon. I--happened to look in there, and
you were gone."

"I suppose you came just at the moment I happened to be absent, then. I
had to see one or two men on business. Not pleasant business. I was not
amusing myself, I assure you," he added with a short hard laugh.

"What men had you to see?"

"Oh, no one whom you know anything about. Isn't dinner ready? I shan't
dress. I have to go out again this evening."

"This evening!"

"Yes; it is a frightful bore, but I have a business appointment. Do ring
and tell the cook to make haste."

"You are not going out again this evening, Ancram?"

"I tell you I must. How can you be so childish, Castalia? Whilst I am
gone you can employ yourself in making out the draught of a letter to
your uncle."

"I will not write to my uncle! I will not. You don't care for me.
You--you deceive me," burst out Castalia. And then a storm of sobs
choked her voice, and she hurried away, filling the little house with a
torrent of incoherent sounds.

Algy looked after her, with his head bent down and his eyebrows raised.
Castalia was really very trying to live with. As to her refusal to write
to her uncle, she would not of course persist in it. It was out of the
question that she should persist in opposing any wish of his. But she
was really very trying.

When dinner was announced, Castalia sent word that she had a headache
and could not eat. She was lying down in her own room. Her husband
murmured a few words of sympathy, but ate his dinner with no sensible
diminution of appetite, and, as soon as it was despatched, he lit a
cigar, wrapped himself in his great-coat, and went out.

Castalia heard the street-door shut. She rose swiftly from the bed on
which she had thrown herself, put on a bonnet and cloak, muffled her
face in a veil, and followed her husband.




CHAPTER VI.


The night was dark and cheerless. It was one of those murky November
nights when one seems to see and breathe through a dusky gauze. The road
from Ivy Lodge to Whitford was not lighted. At a long distance before
her, Castalia saw a red, glowing speck, which she knew to be the lamp
over the chemist's shop, kept by Mr. Barker, her landlord. After that, a
few street lamps glimmered, and the town of Whitford had fairly begun.

It was not late, and yet most of the shops were shut, and the streets
very silent and deserted. Castalia strained her eyes onward through the
darkness, and presently saw her husband's figure come into the circle of
faint light made by a street lamp, traverse it, and disappear again into
the shade. She had walked so quickly in her excitement as to have
overtaken him sooner than she had expected. Whither was he going?

She slunk along in the shadow of the houses, frightened at the faint
sound of her own footfall on the flagstones, starting nervously at every
noise, hurrying across the lighted spaces in front of the few shops that
remained open with averted face and beating heart, fearing to be noticed
by those within. But never once did she falter in her purpose of
following her husband. She would have been turned back by no obstacle
short of one which defied her physical powers to pass it.

Algernon was now nearing Maxfield's house. The shutters of the shop were
closed, but the door was still open, and a light streamed from it on to
the pavement. Castalia followed, watching breathlessly. Her husband
passed the shop, went on a pace or two, stopped at the private door, and
rang the bell. She could see the action of his arm as he raised it. The
door was opened without much delay, and Algernon went in.

Castalia stood still, trying to collect her thoughts and determine on
her course of action. What should she do? Her husband might be an
hour--hours--in that house. She could not stand there in the street. An
impulse came upon her to make herself known--to go in and tax Algernon
with perfidy and deception then and there. But she checked the impulse.
It would have been a desperate step. Algernon might never forgive her.
It might be possible for her to reach a pitch of rage and jealousy which
would make her deaf to any such considerations--careless as to the
consequences of her actions if she could but gratify the imperious
passion of the moment. She was dimly conscious that this might be
possible; but for the present she had sufficient control over her own
actions to pause and deliberate. There she stood, alone at night, in
Whitford High Street--stealthily, trembling, and wretched--she, Castalia
Kilfinane! Who would believe it? What would her uncle feel if he could
see her now, or guess what she was enduring?

The idea came into her mind--floating like a waif on the current of
indignant misery that seemed to flood all her spirit--that there might
be hundreds of human beings whom she had seen and thought happy smarting
with some secret wound like her own, and living lives the half of which
was never known to the world. Castalia had never been apt to let her
imagination busy itself with the sorrows of others, and at this moment
the conception had no softening effect. It only added an extra flavour
of bitterness and rebellion to her sufferings. It was too cruel. Why
should such things be? And what had she done to merit so much
unhappiness? She shivered a little as a breeze from the river came
bringing with it the clammy breath of the marsh mists--the white
cloud-kraken that Minnie Bodkin had so often watched from her window.

How long Castalia remained standing at her post she could never reckon;
she was conscious only of burning pain of mind, and of a determination
not to shrink from her purpose because of the pain. A footstep came
sounding along the quiet street and startled her. She shrank back as far
as she could, pressing her shoulder close against the wall, and
uncertain whether to walk on or remain still. It was a man who came
towards her, turning from a narrow street opening into the High Street,
which Castalia knew to be Lady Lane. He walked with a very rapid step,
hanging his head, and looking neither to the right nor to the left.
Castalia was, perhaps, the only dweller in Whitford who would not have
recognised the figure as being that of David Powell, the Methodist
preacher.

As Powell neared Castalia, he seemed to become aware of her presence by
some sixth sense, for to all appearance he had not looked towards her.
The truth was, that all his outward perceptions were habitually
disregarded by him, except such as carried with them some suggestion of
helpfulness and sympathy. A fashionable lady might have stood facing him
during a long sermon in chapel, or in the open fields, and (unless she
had displayed signs of "grace") he would have taken no heed of
her--would not have been able to tell the colour of her garments. But
let the same woman be tearful, ragged, sick, or injured, and no
observation could be more rapid and comprehensive than David Powell's,
to convey all needful particulars of her state and requirements. So this
night, as he passed along the quiet Whitford streets, the few persons he
had met hitherto were to him as shadows. But when the vague outline of a
woman's form made itself a blot of blacker shadow in the darkness, those
accustomed sentinels, his senses, gave the spirit notice of a
fellow-creature in want, possibly of bread, certainly of sympathy.

He stopped within a few paces of Castalia, and perceived by that time
that she was well and warmly clad, and that her trouble, whatever it
was, could not be alleviated by alms. In her desire to avoid notice, she
shrank away more and more almost crouching down against the wall. It
occurred to Powell that she might be ill. "Are you suffering?" he asked,
in a low musical voice. "Can I help you?"

Finding that she did not reply, he advanced a step farther, and was
stretching out his hand to touch her on the shoulder, when, driven to
bay, she raised herself up to her full height, and answered quickly and
resentfully, "No; I am not ill. I am waiting for some one."

He stood still, irresolutely. Her voice and accent struck him with
surprise, he recognised them as belonging to a person of a different
class from any he had expected. How came such a lady to be alone at
that hour, standing in the cold street? At length he said, gently, "If I
may advise you, it would be well for you to go home. The person who
keeps you waiting in the street in such weather, and at this hour, must
surely be very thoughtless. Can I not assist you? I am David Powell, a
poor preacher of the Word. You need have no fear of me."

"No; please to go away. I am not at all afraid. Go away, go away!" she
added with an imperative emphasis, for she began to fear lest her
husband should come out of the house, hear the sound of her voice, and
find her there. Powell obeyed her, and walked slowly away. There was, in
truth, so far as he knew, no reason to fear that any evil could happen
to the woman in Whitford High Street, except the evil of standing so
long in the cold, raw weather. It had now begun to rain; a fine
drizzling rain, that was very chill.

When he had walked some distance along the High Street, and was close to
the turning that led to Mrs. Thimbleby's house, he stopped and looked
back. Almost at the same moment he saw a man come out of Maxfield's
house, and advance along the street towards him. Then, at rather a long
interval, the cloaked lady began to move onward also, but without
overtaking the man, or apparently trying to do so. It was a strange
adventure, and one entirely unparalleled in Powell's experience of the
little town; and after he had reached his lodgings he could not, for a
long time, divert his thoughts from dwelling on it.

Meanwhile, Algernon, unconscious of the watcher behind him, proceeded
straight onward to the post-office. Then he turned up the narrow passage
or entry in which was the side door that gave access to his private
office. Castalia did not follow him beyond the mouth of the entry.
Standing there and listening, she heard the sharp sound of a match being
struck, then the turning of a key, and a door softly opened and shut.

It then struck Castalia for the first time that this unexpected visit to
the office afforded an opportunity for her to reach home without her
husband's discovering her absence. She had not considered before how
this was to be accomplished; and, indeed, had Algernon returned directly
to Ivy Lodge from Maxfield's house it would have been impossible.

She now saw this, and hastened back along the road, in a tremor at her
narrow escape; for, although the impulse had crossed her mind to declare
herself, and boldly enter Maxfield's house in quest of her husband, that
was a very different matter from being suddenly discovered against her
will. In the latter case she would, as she well knew, have been at an
immense disadvantage with her husband, who, instead of being accused,
would become accuser.

Nothing short, indeed, of the passion of jealousy within her would have
given her strength to combat her husband. This was the only way in which
her idolatrous admiration, her very love for him, could be turned into a
weapon against him.

"I could bear anything else! Anything else!" she said to herself. "But
to be fooled and deceived, and put aside for that girl----!" A great hot
wave of passion seemed to flow through her whole body as she thought of
Rhoda. "Let the servants see me! What do I care?" she said recklessly.
At that moment she would not have heeded if the whole town had seen her,
and known her errand into Whitford, and its result. She rang loudly at
the bell of Ivy Lodge, and walked in past the servant, with a white face
and glittering eyes.

"Isn't master coming?" stammered the girl, staring at her mistress.

"I don't know. Go to bed. I don't want you."

There was something in her face which checked further speech on Lydia's
part. Lydia was fairly frightened. She crept away to the garret, where
Polly was already sleeping soundly, and vainly tried to rouse her
fellow-servant, to feel some interest in her account of how missus had
stalked into the house by herself like a ghost, and had ordered her off
to bed, and to get up a discussion as to missus's strange goings on
altogether of late.

Castalia went to her own room, uncertain whether to undress and go to
bed or to remain up and confront her husband when he should return. One
dominant desire had been growing in her heart for many days past, and
had now become a force overwhelming all smaller motives, and drawing
them resistlessly into its strong current. This dominant desire was to
be revenged--not on her husband, but on Rhoda Maxfield. And it might be
that by waiting and watching yet awhile, by concealing from Ancram the
discovery she had that night made, she might be enabled more effectually
to strike at her rival. If Ancram knew, he would try to shield Rhoda. He
would put the thing in such a light before the world as to elicit
sympathy for Rhoda and make her (Castalia) appear ridiculous or
obnoxious. He had the gift to do such things when it pleased him. But
Rhoda should not escape. No; she would keep her own counsel yet awhile
longer.

When Algernon came home about midnight, letting himself into the house
with a private key which he carried, he found his wife asleep, or
seeming to sleep, and congratulating himself on escaping the querulous
catechism as to where he had been, and what he had been doing, which he
would have to endure had Castalia been awake on his return. As he
crossed the bedchamber to his dressing-room, she moved, and put up one
hand to screen her eyes from the light.

"Don't let me disturb you, Cassy," he said. "I have been detained very
late. I am going downstairs again--there is a spark of fire in the
dining-room--to have one cigar before I turn in. Go to sleep again."

He bent down to kiss her, but she kept her face obstinately buried in
the pillow. So he took her left hand, which hung down, and lightly
touched it with his lips, saying, "Poor sleepy Cassy!" and went away.

And then she raised her thin left hand, on which her wedding-ring hung
loosely, and passionately kissed it where her husband's lips had rested,
and burst into a storm of crying, until she fairly sobbed herself to
sleep.




CHAPTER VII.


"So you had that fine gentleman, Mr.
Algernon--What-d'ye-call-it--Errington, here last evening?" said
Jonathan Maxfield to his daughter, on his return from Duckwell.

"Yes, father; he had been before in the afternoon. He was very anxious
to see you; but Aunt Betty told him you wouldn't be back until to-day."

"Very anxious to see me, was he? I have my own opinion about that. But,
no doubt, he wants me to believe that he's anxious."

"He seems in a good deal of distress of mind, father."

"I daresay. And what about the minds of the folks as hold his promises
to pay? Just so much waste paper, those are, I take it; I'd as lief have
his word of honour myself. And most people in Whitford know what that's
worth."

"I think he has been very unfortunate, father."

"H'm! What worldly folks calls misfortin' is generally the Lord's
dealing according to deserts. It's set forth in Scripture that the
righteous man shall prosper, and the unrighteous be brought to naught."

"But--father, even good people are sometimes chastened by afflictions,"
said Rhoda timidly.

Old Max knitted his brows.

"There's nothing," said he, "more dangerous than for the young and
inexperienced to wrest texts; it leads 'em far astray. When that kind o'
chastening is spoken of, it don't mean the sort of trouble as has fallen
on young Errington. The Almighty has given every man reason enough to
understand that, if he spends thirteenpence out of every shilling, he'll
be beggared before the year's end. I don't believe in men being ruined
without fault or foolishness of their own."

"He asked me if I--if you--if I thought----he asked me to ask you to
have a little patience with him about some bills. I didn't know that he
had any bill here; but he said you would understand."

"Aye, aye! I understand. It isn't bills for tea, and flour, and bacon,
and such like. It's a different kind o' bills the young gentleman's been
meddling with; and a fine hand he's made of it."

"Couldn't you help him, father?"

Rhoda spoke pleadingly, but with the timidity which always attended her
requests to her father, whose recent indulgence had never reached a
point of weakness, and who clearly showed, in all his dealings with his
daughter, that he was not carried away by his affection for her, but
acted with the consciousness of a will unfettered by precedents, and
perfectly able to choose its course without regard to what other people
might expect of him.

For herself, in pleading for Algernon, she was not moved by
self-conscious sentimentality, neither did she suppose herself to be
doing anything heroic. The peculiar tenderness she still felt for him
was made up of pity and memory. The Algy she had loved was gone--had
melted into thin air, like a dream under the morning sunlight. Mr.
Errington, the postmaster of Whitford, and the husband of the Honourable
Castalia Kilfinane, was a very different personage. Still he was
inextricably connected in her mind with that bright idol of her
childhood and her youth. His marriage had put all possibility of
love-making between him and herself as much out of the question, to her
mind, as if he had been proved to be her brother. Rhoda had read no
romances, and she was neither of an innovating spirit nor a passionate
temperament, and it is surprising what power a sincere conviction of the
irrevocable and inevitable has to control the "natural feelings" we hear
so much of! But she clung tenaciously to a better opinion of Algernon
than his actions warranted--as has been the case with many another
woman--chiefly to justify herself for ever having loved him.

"Couldn't you help him, father?" she repeated, seeing that her father
did not at once reply, but was sitting meditating, with a not altogether
ill-pleased expression of face.

"Help him!" cried old Max. "Why should I help him? A reprobate,
unregenerate, vain, ungrateful worldling! I did help him once, and
earned much gratitude for my pains. And what a sneaking, poor, mean,
pitiful fellow he must be to come here and whine to you! A poor, pitiful
fellow! Talk of a gentleman! Yah!"

Old Max derived so much grim satisfaction from the contemplation of
Algernon's pitiful behaviour that it seemed almost to soften him towards
the culprit, in whom any glimpse of nobility would not have been very
welcome to his enemy. When you hate a man on excellent private grounds,
it is certainly unpleasant to see him displaying qualities in public
which win a fallacious admiration. And this aggravation was one which
old Max had been suffering for some time at the hands of the popular
Algernon. His present money difficulties, combined with his unworthy
methods of meeting them, at once gratified and justified Jonathan
Maxfield's vindictiveness.

He gave forth the queer grunting noise that served him for a laugh, as
he said, "And a lot o' good his fine marriage has done him! And his
grand relations! I told him long ago that if he wanted help from such as
them, he must ask it with a pocket full of money. Then he might ha' been
uplifted into high places. And it wasn't only my own wisdom neither,
though that might ha' been enough for such a half-fledged young cockerel
as he was in them days, seeing it has been enough for his betters before
now. I had the warrant of Scripture; for what says Solomon? 'Wealth
maketh many friends; but the poor is separated from his neighbour.'"

Still Rhoda did not altogether despair of inducing her father to do
something for Algernon. What that something might be, or how far it was
possible for her father to assist young Errington, except by simply
giving or lending him money, Rhoda was ignorant. Algernon in talking to
her had spoken very glibly, but, to her, very unintelligibly, of bills
which were in her father's hands; and had pointed out, with an air of
candour and conviction, that it would be imprudent on Mr. Maxfield's
part to drive matters to extremity. It had all sounded very convincing,
simply from the tone in which it was said. Many of us are astonishingly
uncritical as to the coherence and cogency of words if they be but set
to a good tune.

Algernon himself was rather hopeful since that interview with Rhoda. It
could not be, after all, that Jonathan Maxfield would actually cause
him, Algernon Errington, any personal inconvenience for the sake of a
sum which was really a mere trifle to Maxfield, and which appeared very
trifling to Algernon under every aspect except that of being called upon
to pay it.

He had learned not long previously that certain bills he had given,
backed by the name of that solid capitalist, the Honourable Jack Price,
had found their way into old Max's hands. This startled him
considerably, for he had no reason to count on the old man's
forbearance. The time was drawing nigh when the bills would become due.

About a month ago some other bills had fallen due, and had been duly
honoured. They had been given to a London wine merchant, who would
certainly not have scrupled to take any strong measure for getting his
money. And even the name of Jack Price was no talisman to charm away
this grasping tradesman's determination to be paid for goods delivered;
the wine merchant in question doing a large City business, and feeling
no anxiety as to the opinion entertained by the Honourable Mr. Price's
fashionable connection about himself or his wares. Under the pressure of
this disagreeable conviction, the money had been found to honour the
bills held by the wine merchant.

For the discharge of the liabilities represented by the bills now in
Maxfield's hands, Algernon had reckoned on Castalia's extracting some
money from her uncle. Algernon did not abandon the hope that she might
yet succeed in doing so. Castalia must be urged to make new and stronger
representations of their necessities to Lord Seely. But it could not be
denied that my lord's last letter had been a very heavy blow; and that,
moreover, a number of slight embarrassments, which Algernon had hitherto
looked on as mere gossamer threads, to be broken when he pleased, had
recently exhibited a disconcerting toughness and power of constraining
his actions and destroying his comfort.

The thought not infrequently occurred to him that, if he were alone in
the world, unhampered by a wife who had no flexibility of character, and
who had recently displayed a stubborn kind of obtuseness, showing itself
in such remarks as that if they had not money to pay for luxuries, they
must do without luxuries, and that if they were poor, it would be better
to seem poor, and the like dull commonplaces, which were peculiarly
distasteful to Algernon's vivacious intelligence--if, he thought, he had
no wife, or a different wife, things would undoubtedly go better with
him. He was too quick not to perceive that his marriage, far from
improving his social position, had been eminently unpopular amongst his
friends and acquaintances. To be sure he had never intended to return to
Whitford after allying himself with the family of Lord Seely. He had
meant to shake the dust of the sleepy little town from his feet for
ever. He reckoned up the advantages he had expected to gain by marrying
Castalia, and set the real result against each one in his mind.

He had expected to get into the diplomatic service. He was a provincial
postmaster!

He had expected to live in some splendid metropolis. He found himself in
the obscure town which, of all others, he wished to avoid!

He had expected to be courted and caressed by wealthy, noble, and
distinguished persons. He was looked coldly or shyly upon by even the
insignificant middle-class society of a county town!

All this seemed peculiarly hard and unjust, because Algernon had always
intended to bear his honours gracefully, without stiffness or arrogance.
He would cut nobody; he would turn the cold shoulder to nobody. He had
pictured himself sometimes making a meteoric reappearance in Whitford
some day; flashing with brief brilliancy across the horizon of that
remote neighbourhood, affably shaking hands with old acquaintance,
occupying the best rooms in the "Blue Bell," and scattering largesse
among the servants, rattling through the streets side by side with some
county magnate, whose companionship should by no means chill his
recognition of such local stars of the second or third magnitude as the
Pawkinses of Pudcombe Hall. He was inclined by taste and temperament to
be thoroughly "_bon prince_."

Such fancies may seem childish, but it was a fact that Algernon had
indulged in them. With all his tact, he had a considerable strain of his
mother's Ancramism in his blood. And the contrast between those former
day-dreams and the present reality was so terrible, so mortifying, so
ridiculous (direst and most soul-chilling word of all to Algernon!) that
he was unable to face it. Some way out must be found. It was impossible,
on any tenable theory of society, that he should be permanently
consigned to oblivion and the daily round of inglorious duties.

As to what Lord Seely said about meriting advancement by diligence, and
working for ten or fifteen years, it seemed to Algernon pretty much like
exhorting a convict to step his daily round of treadmill in so
painstaking a manner as to win the approbation of the gaol authorities.
What would he care for their approbation? It was impossible to take
either pride or pleasure in working out one's penal sentence.

Algernon felt very bitter against Lord Seely as he pondered these
things, and not a little bitter against Castalia, who had, as it were,
bound him to this wheel, and had latterly added the sting of her
intolerable temper to his other vexations. Fate had used him
despitefully. He seemed to consider that some gratitude was due to him
on the part of the supernal powers for his excellent intentions--he
would have borne prosperity so well! A feeling grew upon him, which
would have been desperation but for his ever-present, instinctive
efforts not to hurt himself.

On the morning after the visit to Maxfield's house--of which Castalia
had been an unseen witness--Algernon went to the post-office somewhat
earlier than usual. As he reached it a man was coming out, who scowled
upon him with so sullen and hostile a countenance, that it affected him
like a blow.

He was, on the whole, in better spirits on this special morning than he
had been for some time past. Not that he was habitually depressed by his
troubles, but there was a certain apprehension and anxiety in his daily
life which flavoured it all unpleasantly. But on this morning he was,
for various reasons, feeling hopeful of at least a reprieve from care,
and the man's angry frown not only hurt but startled him.

"Who is that fellow who has just gone out?" he asked of Gibbs, entering
the office by the public door instead of his own private one, in order
to put the question.

"That is Roger Heath, the man who has lost his money-letter."

"An uncommonly ill-looking rascal, I take leave to think."

"Ahem! He is a decent, God-fearing man, sir, I believe; but at present
he is wrath, and not without some excuse, either. He tells me he has
written to the head office----"

"And what then?"

"And has been told that due inquiries will be made, of course."

"And what then?"

"Why then--I suppose that's the last he'll hear of it."

Algernon lightly flicked a white handkerchief over his face and bright
curling hair, filling the close little office with a delicate perfume as
he said, "So there's an end of that!"

"An end of it, I suppose, so far as Heath is concerned. But I doubt we
shall hear more of the matter in the office."

Algernon paused with his hand on the lock of the door leading to his
private room. He kept his hand there, and scarcely turned his head as he
asked, "How so?"

Mr. Gibbs shook his head, and began to expatiate on the singular
misfortunes which had been accumulated on the Whitford Post-office, and
to hint that when two or three suspicious cases had followed each other
in that way, an office was marked by the superior authorities, and means
were taken to discover the culprit.

"Means! What means?" said Algernon, carelessly. "You said yourself that
it was next to impossible to trace a stolen letter. And, really, if
people will be such idiots as to send money by post without precaution,
in spite of all the warnings that are given to them, they deserve to
lose it."

"That may be, sir. Still, of course, it is no light matter to steal a
letter. And as to the means of tracing it, why I have heard of
trap-letters being sent, containing marked money."

The handle clicked, the door was opened and sharply shut again, and the
Whitford postmaster disappeared into his private room.

It was more than an hour before Algernon reappeared in the outer office.
He advanced towards Gibbs, and leaning on his shoulder with great
affability, said to him in a low voice, "You've no suspicion of any one
about this place, eh? The old woman that cleans the office, that boy
Jem, no suspicion of anybody, eh? Oh! well I'm excessively glad of that!
One hates to be distrustful of the people about one."

Gibbs shook his head emphatically and decisively. "No one has access to
the office unless in my presence, sir; not a creature."

"The fact is," said Algernon, slowly, "that I have missed one or two
papers of my own lately; matters of no consequence. God knows why anyone
should have thought it worth while to take them! But they're gone."

Gibbs looked up with serious alarm in his face.

"Dear me, sir!" he exclaimed; "dear me, Mr. Errington! I wish you had
mentioned this before."

"Oh well, you know, I thought I might be mistaken. I hate being on the
watch about trifles. But latterly I am quite sure that papers have
disappeared from my secretaire."

"From that little cabinet with drawers in it, that stands in your room?"

"Exactly."

"But--I was under the impression that you kept that carefully locked!"

Algernon laughed outright. "What a fellow you are, Gibbs! Fancy my
keeping anything carefully locked! The fact is, it is as often open as
shut. Only a few days ago, for instance, Mrs. Errington mentioned to me
that she found it unlocked when she was here----" He stopped as if
struck by a sudden thought, and turned his eyes away from Gibbs, who was
looking up at him with the same uneasy expression on his face.
"By-the-way, Mrs. Errington did not stay very long here, did she?" asked
Algernon, with a degree of marked embarrassment very unusual in him. It
was an embarrassment so ingeniously displayed that one might almost have
suspected he wished it to be observed.

"When do you mean, sir? Mrs. Errington comes very often; very often
indeed."

"Does she?--I mean--I mean the last time she was here. Did she stay long
then?"

"N--no," answered Gibbs, removing his eyes from Algernon's face, and
biting the feather of his pen thoughtfully. "At least, I think not, sir.
I cannot be sure. She very often does not pass out through my office,
but goes away by the private door in the passage."

There was a pause.

"I really am very glad that you don't suspect any of the people about
the place, Gibbs," said Algernon at length, rousing himself with some
apparent effort from a reverie. "As long as I have any authority here,
no innocent person shall be made unhappy for one moment by watchfulness
and suspicion."

"That's a very kind feeling, Mr. Errington. But I shouldn't think an
innocent person would mind being watched in such a case. For my own
part, I hope we shall trace the matter out. It shan't be my fault if we
don't."

"You are wonderfully energetic, Gibbs. An invaluable public servant.
But, Gibbs, it will not, I think, be any part of your duty to mention to
any one at present the losses I have spoken of from my secretaire. There
is no reason, as yet, to connect them with the missing letters. I did
not duly consider what I was saying. The papers, after all, were only
private letters of my own, Gibbs. They concern no one but myself. One
was a mere note--an invitation from a lady. They could have had no value
for a thief, you know. I--I daresay I mislaid it, and never put it into
the secretaire at all."

Algernon went away with downcast eyes and hurried step, and Mr. Gibbs
stared after him with a bewildered gaze. Then slowly the expression of
his face changed to one of consternation and pity. "Poor young man!" he
exclaimed, half aloud. "That woman has been making free with his papers
beyond a doubt. And he does his best to shield her. A worldly-minded,
vain woman she is, that looks at us as if we were made of a different
kind of clay from her. And they say she is furiously jealous of her
husband. But this--this is serious! This is very serious, indeed. I am
sorry for the young man with all my heart!"




CHAPTER VIII.


It was no more possible to do anything unusual in Whitford without
arresting attention, and being subjected to animadversion, than it was
possible for atmospheric conditions to change without affecting the
barometer.

Who could tell how it got abroad in the town that young Mrs. Errington
was in the habit of following her husband about; of watching him, spying
on his actions, and examining his private correspondence? Mr. Obadiah
Gibbs, who could have told more than any one on the latter head, was not
given to talking. Yet the fact oozed out.

It assumed, of course, a great variety of forms and colours, according
to the more or less distorting mediums through which it passed.
The fact, as uttered by Miss Chubb, for example, was a very
different-looking fact from that which was narrated with bated breath,
and nods, and winks, by Mrs. Smith, the surgeon's wife. And her
version, again, varied considerably from those of Mr. Gladwish, the
Methodist shoemaker; Mr. Barker, the Church of England chemist; and the
bosom friends of the servants at Ivy Lodge. Still, under one shape and
another, Mrs. Algernon Errington's jealousy of her husband, and her
consequent behaviour, were within the cognisance of Whitford, and were
discussed in all circles there.

The predominant feeling ran strongly against Castalia. There were
persons, indeed, who, exercising an exemplary impartiality (on which
they much prided themselves), refused to take sides in the matter, but
considered it most probable that both parties were to blame. Mrs. Smith
was among these. She had, she declared, that rare gift in woman--a
judicial mind, although her conception of the judicial functions
appeared to be limited to putting on the black cap and passing sentence.
But in the main, public sympathy was with Algernon. He had offended many
old acquaintances by his aristocratic marriage; but at least he was now
making the only amends in his power by being extremely unhappy in it! A
great many wiseacres, male and female, were now able to shake their
heads, and say they had known all along how it would turn out. This came
of flying too high; for, if Mrs. Errington, senior, was an Ancram by
birth, her husband had been only a country surgeon--not even M.D.,
though she called him "doctor." And this justifying of their predictions
was, in a vague way, imputed to Algernon as a merit; or, at the least,
it softened disapproval. Then, too, in justice to Whitfordians, it must
be said that all their knowledge of Castalia showed them an insolent,
supercilious, uninteresting woman, who made no secret of her contempt
for them and their town, and who, "although but a poor postmaster's
wife, when you came to look at it," as Mrs. Smith the judicial truly
observed, gave herself more airs than a duchess. What good, or
capacities for good, there might be in her, was hidden from Whitford,
whilst her unpleasant qualities were abundantly manifested to all
beholders.

Poor Castalia, in her quite unaffected nonchalance and disregard of "all
those people," was totally ignorant how much resentment and dislike she
was creating, and in what a hostile atmosphere she was living. Her
husband's popularity, dimmed by his alliance with her, began to revive
when it was perceived that she persecuted and harassed him, and (as was
shrewdly suspected) involved him in money difficulties by her
extravagance. Some of the men thought it served him right; why did he
marry such a woman? But the ladies, as a rule, were on Algernon's side.

There were exceptions, of course. Miss McDougall stood up for her
friend, as she said, albeit with some admixture of Mrs. Smith's judicial
tendency to blame everybody all round, and a personal disposition
towards spitefulness. Minnie Bodkin said very little when the subject
was mentioned in her presence; but when an opinion was forced from her,
she did not deliver it entirely in favour of Algernon. She was sorry for
his wife, she said. And nine-tenths of her hearers would retort with
raised hands and eyes, that they, for their part, were sorry for the
young man, and that they could not understand what dear Minnie found to
pity in Mrs. Algernon Errington. "A woman who spies on her husband, my
dear! Who condescends to open his letters--how a woman can so degrade
herself is a mystery to me! And they say she actually follows him about
the street at nights--skulks after him! Oh! it is almost too bad to
repeat!"

"I don't know that all that is true. But if it be so, it seems to me
that there is great cause for pity," Minnie would reply. And the answer
was set down to poor dear Miss Bodkin's eccentricity.

There had been, for some time back, a talk of carelessness and
mismanagement at the Whitford Post-office. Then Roger Heath made no
secret of his loss, and was not soft-hearted or mild in his manner of
speaking of it. He complained aloud, and spared nobody. And there were
plenty of voices ready to carry his denunciations through all classes of
Whitford society. It was very strange! Such a thing as the loss of a
money-letter had been almost unknown during the reign of the late
postmaster; and now there was, not one case, but two--three--a dozen!
The number increased, as it passed from mouth to mouth, at a wonderful
rate. There must be great negligence (to say the least of it) somewhere
in the Whitford Post-office. If the present postmaster was too much
above his business to look after it properly, it was a pity his high
friends didn't remove him to some situation better suited to such a fine
gentleman!

To be sure he was worried out of his wits by that woman. It really was
true that she haunted the office at all hours. She had been seen
slipping out of the private door in the entry. She was even said to have
a pass key which enabled her to go in and out at her will. Was it not
rumoured on very good authority that she had actually gone to the office
alone, in the dead of night? What could she want to be always prowling
about there for? It was all very well to say she went to spy on her
husband, but if things went wrong in the office in consequence of her
spyings, it became a public evil. Anyway, it was most extraordinary and
unheard-of behaviour, and somebody ought to take the matter up! This
latter somewhat vague suggestion was a favourite climax to gossip on
the subject of the Algernon Erringtons.

With respect to their private affairs, things did not mend. Tradesmen
dunned, and grumbled, and could not get their money, and some declined
to execute further orders from Ivy Lodge until their accounts were
settled. Among the angriest had been Mr. Ravell, the principal draper of
the town, whom Castalia had honoured with a good deal of her custom. But
one day, not long after Algernon's conversation with his clerk,
mentioned in the last chapter, he was met in the High Street by Mr.
Ravell, who bowed very deferentially, and stopped, hesitatingly. "Could
I say a word to you, sir?" said Mr. Ravell.

"Certainly," replied Algernon. They were close to the post-office, and
he took the draper into his private room, and bade him be seated.

"I suppose, Mr. Ravell," said Algernon, with a shrug and a smile, "that
you have come about your bill! Mrs. Errington mentioned to me a short
time ago that you had been rather importunate. Upon my word, Mr. Ravell,
I think you need not have been in such a deuce of a hurry! I know Mrs.
Errington does not understand making bargains, and I suppose you don't
neglect to arrange your prices so as not to lose by giving her a little
credit, eh?"

This was said lightly, but either the words or the tone made Mr. Ravell
colour and look a little confused. He was seated, and Algernon was
standing near him with his back to the fire, expressing a sense of his
own superiority to the draper in every turn of his well-built figure and
every line of his half-smiling, half-bored countenance.

"Why, you see, Mr. Errington, we are not in the habit of giving long
credit, unless to a few old-established customers who deal largely with
us. It would not suit our style of doing business. And it was reported
that you were not settled permanently here. And--and--one or two
unpleasant things had been said. But I hope you will not continue to
feel so greatly offended with us for sending in the account. It was
merely in the regular way of our transactions, I assure you."

"Oh, I'm not offended at all, Mr. Ravell! And I hope by the end of this
month to clear off all scores between us entirely. Mrs. Errington has
not furnished me with any details, but----"

Ravell looked up quickly. "Clear off all scores between us, sir?" he
said.

"I presume you will have no objection to that, Mr. Ravell?"

"Oh, of course, sir, you will have your joke! I am glad you are not
offended. You see ladies don't always understand these matters. Mrs.
Errington was a little severe on us when she paid the account
yesterday. At least, so my cashier said."

"My wife paid your account yesterday?" cried Algernon, with a blank
look.

"Yes, sir, in full. We should have been quite satisfied if settlement
had been made up to the end of last quarter. But it was paid in full.
Oh, I thought you had been aware of it! Mrs. Errington said--my people
understood her to say, that it was by your wish, as you were so greatly
annoyed at the bill being sent in so often."

"Oh! Yes. Quite right, Mr. Ravell."

He spoke slowly, and as if he were thinking of something other than the
words he uttered. Ravell looked at him curiously. Algernon suddenly
caught the man's eye, and broke into a little careless laugh. "The fact
is," said he, with a frank toss of his head, "that I did not know Mrs.
Errington had paid you. I suppose she had received some remittances,
or--but in short," checking himself, and laughing once more, "I daresay
you won't trouble yourself as to where the money comes from so long as
it comes to you!"

Mr. Ravell laughed back again, but rather in a forced manner. "Not at
all, sir! Not at all," he said, bowing and smiling. And, seeing Algernon
look significantly at his watch, he bowed and smiled himself out of the
office.

Then Mr. Ravell went away to report to his wife the details of his
interview with the postmaster, and before noon the next day it was
reported throughout Whitford that Mrs. Algernon Errington had the
command of mysterious stores of money whereof her husband knew nothing;
and that, nevertheless, she ran him into debt right and left, and
refused to pay a farthing until she was absolutely forced to do so.

This report was not calculated to make those tradesmen who had not been
paid more patient and forbearing. If Mrs. Algernon Errington could find
money for one she could for another, they argued, and a shower of bills
descended on Ivy Lodge within the next week or two. Algernon said they
came like a swarm of locusts, and threatened to devour all before them.
He acknowledged to himself that the payment of Ravell's bill had been a
fatal precedent. "And, perhaps," he thought, "there was no need for
getting rid of the notes after all! However, the thing is done and can't
be undone."

The necessity for another appeal to Lord Seely grew more and more
imminent. Castalia had displayed an unexpected obstinacy about the
matter. She had held to her refusal to ask for more money from her
uncle, but Algernon had not yet urged her very strongly to do so. The
moment had now come, he thought, when an appeal absolutely must be made,
and he doubted not his own power to cause Castalia to make it. Her
manner, to be sure, had been very singular of late; alternately sullen
and excited, passing from cold silence to passionate tenderness without
any intermediate phases. He had surprised her occasionally crying
convulsively, and at other times on coming home he had found her sitting
absolutely unoccupied, with a blank, fixed face. The few persons who saw
Castalia frequently, observed the change in her, and commented on it.
Miss Chubb once dropped a word to Algernon indicating a vague suspicion
that his wife's intellect was disordered. He did not choose to appear to
perceive the drift of her words, but the hint dwelt in his mind.

"You must write to Lord Seely this evening, Cassy," he said one day on
returning home to dinner. He had found his wife at her desk, and, on
seeing him, she huddled away a confused heap of papers into a drawer,
and hastily shut it.

"Must I?" she answered gloomily.

"Well, I don't wish to use an offensive phrase. You will write to oblige
me. It has been put off long enough."

"Why should I oblige you?" said Castalia, looking up at him with sunken
eyes. She looked so ill and haggard, as to arrest Algernon's
attention--not too lavishly bestowed on her in general.

"Cassy," said he, "I am afraid you are not well!"

The tears came into her eyes. She turned her head away. "Do you really
care whether I am ill or well?" she asked.

"Do I really care? What a question! Of course I care. Are you
suffering?"

"N--no; not now. I believe I should not feel any suffering if you only
loved me, Ancram."

"Castalia! How can you be so absurd?"

He rose from his seat beside her, and walked impatiently up and down the
room. Nothing irritated him so much as to be called on for sentiment or
tenderness.

"There!" she exclaimed, with a little despondent gesture of the head,
"you were speaking and looking kindly, and I have driven you away! I
wish I was dead."

Algernon stopped in his walk, and cast a singular look at his wife. Then
after a moment he said, in his usual light manner, "My dear Cassy, you
are low and nervous. It really is not good for you to mope by yourself
as you do. Come, rouse yourself to write this letter to my lord, then
after dinner you can have the fly to drive to my mother's. She complains
that she sees you very seldom."

"Will you come too, Ancram?"

"I----well, yes; if it is possible, I will come too."

"I think," said Castalia, putting her hands on his shoulders, and
gazing wistfully into his face, "that if you and I could go away to some
quiet strange place--far away from all these odious people--across the
seas somewhere--I think we might be happy even now."

"Upon my honour, there's nothing I should like so much as to get away
across the seas! And you might as well hint to my lord, in the course of
your letter, that I should be very well contented with a berth in the
Colonies. A good climate, of course! One wouldn't care to be shipped off
to Sierra Leone!"

"I will write that to Uncle Val, willingly. But--don't ask me to beg
money of him again."

Algernon made a rapid calculation in his mind, and answered without
appreciable pause, "Well, Cassy, it shall be as you will. But as to
begging----that, I think, is scarcely the word between us and Lord
Seely."

"I'll run upstairs and bathe my eyes, and I shall still have time to
write before dinner," said Castalia, and left the room.

When he was alone, Algernon opened the writing-table drawer, and glanced
at the papers in it. Castalia's hurried manner of concealing them had
suggested to his mind the suspicion that she might have been writing
secretly to her uncle. He found no letter addressed to Lord Seely, but
he did find an unfinished fragment of writing addressed to himself. It
consisted of a few incoherent phrases of despondency and reproach--the
expression of confidence betrayed and affection unrequited. There was a
word or two in it about the writer's weariness of life and desire to
quit it.

Castalia had written many such fragments of late; sometimes as a mere
outlet for suppressed feeling, sometimes under the impression that she
really could not long support an existence uncheered by sympathy or
counsel, embittered by jealousy, and chilled by neglect. She had written
such fragments, and then torn them up in many a lonely hour, but she had
never thought of complaining of Algernon to Lord Seely. She would
complain of him to no human being. But all Algernon's insight into his
wife's character did not enable him to feel sure of this. Indeed, he had
often said to himself that no rational being could be expected to follow
the vagaries of Castalia's sickly fancies and impracticable temper. He
would not have been surprised to find her pouring out a long string of
lamentations about her lot to Lord Seely. He was not much surprised at
what he did find her to have written, although the state of feeling it
displayed seemed to him as unreasonable and unaccountable as ever. He
gave himself no account of the motive which made him take the fragment
of writing, fold it, and place it carefully inside a little pocket-book
which he carried.

"I wonder," he thought to himself, "if Castalia is likely to die!"




CHAPTER IX.


The letter to Lord Seely was duly written, and this time in Castalia's
own words. Algernon refused to assist her in the composition of it,
saying, in answer to her appeals, "No, no, Cassy; I shall make no
suggestion whatsoever. I don't choose to expose myself to any more
grandiloquence from your uncle about letters being 'written by your
hand, but not dictated by your head.' I wonder at my lord talking such
high-flown stuff. But pomposity is his master weakness."

Castalia's letter was as follows:

     "Whitford, November 23rd.

     "DEAR UNCLE VAL,--I am sure you will understand that I was very
     much surprised and hurt at the tone of your last letter to
     Ancram. Of course, if you have not the money to help us with,
     you cannot lend it. And I don't complain of that. But I was
     vexed at the way you wrote to Ancram. You won't think me
     ungrateful to you. I know how good you have always been to me,
     and I am fonder of you than of anybody in the world except
     Ancram. But nobody can be unkind to him without hurting me, and
     I shall always resent any slight to him. But I am writing now
     to ask you something that 'I wish for very much myself;' it is
     quite my own desire. I am not at all happy in this place. And I
     want you to get Ancram a berth somewhere in the Colonies, quite
     away. It is no use changing from one town in England to
     another. What we want is to get 'far away,' and put the seas
     between us and all the odious people here. I am sure you might
     get us something if you would try. I assure you Ancram is
     perfectly wasted in this hole. Any stupid grocer or
     tallow-chandler could do what he has to do. Do, dear Uncle Val,
     try to help us in this. Indeed I shall never be happy in
     Whitford.--Your affectionate niece,

     "C. ERRINGTON.

     "Give my love to Aunt Belinda if she cares to have it. But I
     daresay she won't.--C. E."

"I think my lord will not doubt the genuineness of that epistle!"
thought Algernon, after having read it at his wife's request.

Then the fly was announced, and they set off together to pass the
evening at the elder Mrs. Errington's lodgings. The "Blue Bell" driver
touched his hat in a very respectful manner. His master's long-standing
account was unpaid, but he continued to receive, for his part, frequent
half-crowns from Algernon, who liked the immediate popularity to be
purchased by a gift somewhat out of proportion to his means. Indeed, our
young friend enjoyed a better reputation amongst menials and underlings
than amongst their employers. The former were apt to speak of him as a
pleasant gentleman who was free with his money; and to declare that they
felt as if they could do anything for young Mr. Errington, so they
could! He had such a way with him! Whereas the mere payment of humdrum
debts excites no such agreeable glow of feeling, and is altogether a
flat, stale, and unprofitable proceeding.

"What o'clock shall we say, Castalia?" asked her husband, as they
alighted at Mrs. Thimbleby's door.

"Tell him to come at half-past ten," returned Castalia.

It chanced that David Powell was re-entering his lodgings at the moment
the younger Erringtons reached the door. He stood aside to let the lady
pass into the house before him, and thus heard her answer. The sound of
her voice made him start and bend forward to look at her face when the
light from the open door fell upon it. She turned round at the same
instant, and the two looked full at each other. David Powell asked Mrs.
Thimbleby if that lady were not the wife of Mr. Algernon Errington.

"Yes, Mr. Powell, she is his wife; and more's the pity, if all tales be
true!"

"Judge not uncharitably, sister Thimbleby! Nor let your tongue belie the
gentleness of your spirit. It is an unruly member that speaks not always
out of the fulness of the heart. The lady seems very sick, and bears the
traces of much sorrow on her countenance."

"Oh yes, indeed, poor thing! Sickly enough she looks, and sorry. Nay, I
daresay she has her own trials, but I fear me she leads that pleasant
young husband of hers a poor life of it. I shouldn't say as much to
anyone but you, sir, for I do try to keep my tongue from evil-speaking.
But had you never seen her before, Mr. Powell?"

Powell answered musingly, "N--no--scarcely seen her. But I had heard her
voice."

Mrs. Errington received her son and daughter-in-law with an effusive
welcome. She was so astonished; so delighted. It was so long since she
had seen them. And then to see them together! That had latterly become
quite a rare treat. The good lady expatiated on this theme until
Castalia's brow grew gloomy with the recollection of her wrongs, her
solitary hours spent so drearily, and her suspicions as to how her
husband employed the hours of his absence from her. And then Mrs.
Errington began playfully to reprove her for being dull and silent,
instead of enjoying dear Algy's society now that she had it! "I am sure,
my dear Castalia," said the elder lady with her usual self-complacent
stateliness, "you won't mind my telling you that I consider one of the
great secrets of the perfect felicity I enjoyed during my married life
to have been the interest and pleasure I always took--and showed that I
took--in Dr. Errington's society."

"Perhaps he liked your society," returned Castalia with a languid sneer,
followed by a short bitter sigh.

"Preferred it to any in the world, my dear!" said Mrs. Errington,
mellifluously. She said it, too, with an _aplomb_ and an air of
conviction that mightily tickled Algernon, who, remembering the family
rumours which haunted his childhood, thought that his respected father,
if he preferred his wife's society to any other, must have put a
considerable constraint on his inclinations, not to say sacrificed them
altogether to the claims of a convivial circle of friends. "The dear old
lady is as good as a play!" thought he. Indeed, he thoroughly relished
this bit of domestic comedy.

"But then," proceeded Mrs. Errington, as she rang the bell to order
tea, "I have not the vanity to suppose that he would have done so
without the exercise of some little care and tact on my part. Tact, my
dear Castalia--tact is the most precious gift a wife can bring to the
domestic circle. But the Ancrams always had enormous tact--Give us some
tea, if you please, Mrs. Thimbleby, and be careful that the water
boils--proverbial for it, in fact!"

Algernon thought it time to come to the rescue. He did not choose his
comfort to be destroyed by a passage of arms between his mother and his
wife, so he deftly turned the conversation to less dangerous topics, and
things proceeded peacefully until the tea was served.

"Who was that man that was coming in to the house with us?" asked
Castalia, as she sipped her tea from one of Mrs. Errington's antique
blue and white china cups.

"Would it be Mr. Diamond----? But no; you know him by sight. Or--oh, I
suppose it was that Methodist preacher, Powell!"

"Powell! Yes, that was the name--David Powell."

"Most likely. He is in and out at all hours. Really, Algernon, do you
know--you remember the fellow, how he used to annoy us at Maxfield's.
Well, do you know, I believe he is quite crazy!"

"You have always entertained that opinion, I believe, ma'am."

"Oh, but, my dear boy, I think he is demented in real downright earnest
now. I do indeed. I'm sure the things that poor weak-minded Mrs.
Thimbleby tells me about him----! He has delusions of all kinds; hears
voices, sees visions. I should say it is a case of what your father
would have called 'melancholy madness.' Really, Algy, I frequently think
about it. It is quite alarming sometimes in the night if I happen to
wake up, to remember that there is a lunatic sleeping overhead. You know
he might take it into his head to murder one! Or if he only killed
himself--which is perhaps more likely--it would be a highly unpleasant
circumstance. I could not possibly remain in the lodgings, you know. Out
of the question! And so I told that silly Thimbleby. I said to her,
'Observe, Mrs. Thimbleby, if any dreadful thing happens in this house--a
suicide or anything of that sort--I shall leave you at an hour's notice.
I wish you well, and I have no desire to withdraw my patronage from you,
but you could not expect me to look over a coroner's inquest.'"

Algernon threw his head back and laughed heartily. "That was a fair
warning, at any rate!" said he. "And if Mr. David Powell has any
consideration for his landlady, he will profit by it--that is to say,
supposing Mrs. Thimbleby tells him of it. What did she say?"

"Oh, she merely cried and whimpered, and hid her face in her apron. She
is terribly weak-minded, poor creature."

Castalia had been listening in silence. All at once she said, "How many
miserable people there are!"

"Very true, Cassy; provincial postmasters and others. And part of my
miserable lot is to go down to the office again for an hour to-night."

"My poor boy!" "Go to the office again to-night?" exclaimed his mother
and his wife simultaneously.

"Yes; it is now half-past eight. I have an appointment. At least--I
shall be back in an hour, I have no doubt."

Algernon walked off with an air of good-humoured resignation, smiling
and shrugging his shoulders. The two women, left alone together, took
his departure very differently. Mrs. Errington was majestically wrathful
with a system of things which involved so much discomfort to a scion of
the house of Ancram. She was of opinion that some strong representations
should be made to the ministry; that Parliament should be appealed to.
And she rather enjoyed her own eloquence, and was led on by it to make
some most astounding assertions, and utter some scathing condemnations
with an air of comfortable self-satisfaction. Castalia, on the other
hand, remained gloomily taciturn, huddled into an easy-chair by the
hearth, and staring fixedly at the fire.

It has been recorded in these pages that Mrs. Errington did not much
object to silence on the part of her companion for the time being; she
only required an assenting or admiring interjection now and then, to
enable her to carry on what she supposed to be a very agreeable
conversation, but she did like her confidante to do that much towards
social intercourse. And she liked, moreover, to see some look of
pleasure, interest, or sympathy on the confidante's face. Looking at
Castalia's moody and abstracted countenance, she could not but remember
the gentle listener in whom she had been wont for so many years to find
a sweet response to all her utterances.

"Oddly enough," she said, "I have been disappointed of a visitor this
evening, and so should have been quite alone if you and Algy had not
come in. I had asked Rhoda to spend the evening with me."

Castalia looked round at the sound of that name. "Why didn't she come?"
she asked abruptly.

"Oh, I don't know. She merely said she could not leave home to-night.
That old father of hers sometimes takes tyrannical fancies into his
head. He has been kinder to dear Rhoda of late, and has treated her
more becomingly--chiefly, I believe I may say, owing to my influence,
although the old booby chose to quarrel with me--but when he takes a
thing into his head he is as obstinate as a mule."

"I don't know about treating her 'becomingly,' but I think she needs
some one to look after her and keep her in check."

"Who, Rhoda? My dear Castalia, she is the very sweetest-tempered
creature I ever met with in my life; and that is saying a good deal, let
me tell you, for the Ancram temper was something quite special. A gift.
I don't boast of it, because I believe it was simply constitutional. But
such was the fact."

"The girl is dressed up beyond her station. The last time I saw her it
was absurd. Scarcely reputable, I should think."

Mrs. Errington by no means liked this attack. Over and above the fact
that Rhoda was her pet and her _protégée_, which would have sufficed to
make any animadversions on her appear impertinent, she was genuinely
fond of the girl, and answered with some warmth, "I am sure, Castalia,
that whatever Rhoda Maxfield might be dressed in, she would look modest
and sweet, not to say excessively pretty, for I suppose there cannot be
a doubt about that?"

"I thought you were a stickler for people keeping to their own station,
and not aping their betters!"

"We must distinguish, Castalia. Birth will ever be with me the first
consideration. Coming of the race I do, it could not be otherwise. But
it is useless to shut one's eyes to the fact that money nowadays will do
much. Look at our best families!--families of lineage as good as my own.
What do we see? We see them allying themselves with commercial people
right and left. Now, there was Miss Pickleham. The way in which she was
thrown at Algy's head would surprise you. She had a hundred thousand
pounds of her own on the day she married, and expectations of much more
on old Picklekam's decease. But I never encouraged the thing. Perhaps I
was wrong. However!--she married Sir Peregrine Puffin last season. And
the Puffins were in Cornwall before the Conquest."

Castalia shrugged her shoulders in undisguised scorn. "All that nonsense
is nothing to the purpose," said she, throwing her head back against the
cushion of the chair she sat on. Mrs. Errington opened her blue eyes to
their widest extent. "Really, Castalia! 'All that nonsense!' You are not
very polite."

"I'm sick of all the pretences, and shams, and deceptions," returned
Castalia, her eyes glittering feverishly, and her thin fingers twining
themselves together with nervous restlessness. "I don't know whether you
are made a fool of yourself, or are trying to make a fool of me----"

"Castalia!"

"But, in either case, I am not duped. Your 'sweet Rhoda!' Don't you know
that she is an artful, false coquette--perhaps worse!"

"Castalia!"

"Yes, worse. Why should she not be as bad as any other low-bred creature
who lures on gentlemen to make love to her? Men are such idiots! So
false and fickle! But, though I may be injured and insulted, I will not
be laughed at for a dupe."

"Good heavens, Castalia! What does this mean?"

"And I will tell you another thing, if you really are so blind to what
goes on, and has been going on, for years: I don't believe Ancram has
gone to the post-office to-night at all. I believe he has gone to see
Rhoda. It would not be the first time he has deceived me on that score!"

Mrs. Errington sat holding the arms of her easy-chair with both hands,
and staring at her daughter-in-law. The poor lady felt as if the world
were turned upside down. It was not so long since old Maxfield had
astonished her by plainly showing that he thought her of no importance,
and choosing to turn her out of his house. And now, here was Castalia
conducting herself in a still more amazing manner. Whilst she revolved
the case in her brain--much confused and bewildered as that organ
was--and endeavoured to come to some clear opinion on it, the younger
woman got up and walked up and down the room with the restless, aimless,
anxious gait of a caged animal.

At length Mrs. Errington slowly nodded her head two or three times, drew
a long breath, folded her hands, and, assuming a judicial air, spoke as
follows:

"My dear Castalia! I shall overlook the unbecomingness of certain
expressions that you have used towards myself, because I can make
allowance for an excited state of feeling. But you must permit me to
give you a little advice. Endeavour to control yourself; try to look at
things with calmness and judgment, and you will soon perceive how wrong
and foolish your present conduct is. And, moreover, you need not be
startled if I have discovered the real motive at the bottom of all this
display of temper. There never was a member of my family yet who had not
a wonderful gift of reading motives. I'm sure it is nothing to envy us!
I have often, for my own part, wished myself as slow of perception as
other people, for the truth is not always pleasant. But I must say that
I can see one thing very plainly--and that is, that you are most
unfortunately and most unreasonably giving way to jealousy! I can see
it, Castalia, as plain as possible."

Mrs. Errington had finished her harangue with much majesty, bringing out
the closing sentences as if they were a most unexpected and powerful
climax, when the effect of the whole was marred by her giving a violent
start and exclaiming, with more naturalness than dignity, "Mercy on us!
Castalia, what will you do next? Do shut that window, for pity's sake! I
shall get my death of cold!"

Castalia had opened the window, and was leaning out of it, regardless of
the sleet which fell in slanting lines and beat against her cheek. "I
knew that was his step," she said, speaking, as it seemed, more to
herself than to her mother-in-law. "And he has no umbrella, and those
light shoes on!" She ran to the fireplace and stirred the fire into a
blaze, displaying an activity which was singularly contrasted with her
usual languid slowness of movement. "Can't you give him some hot wine
and water?" she asked, ringing the bell at the same time. When her
husband came in she removed his damp great-coat with her own hands, made
him sit down near the fire, and brought him a pair of his mother's
slippers, which were quite sufficiently roomy to admit his slender
feet. Algernon submitted to be thus cherished and taken care of,
declaring, with an amused smile, as he sipped the hot negus, that this
fuss was very kind, but entirely unnecessary, as he had not been three
minutes in the rain.

As to Mrs. Errington, she was so perplexed by her daughter-in-law's
sudden change of mood and manner, that she lost her presence of mind,
and remained gazing from Algernon to his wife very blankly. "I never
knew such a thing!" thought the good lady. "One moment she's raging and
scolding, and abusing her husband for deceiving her, and the next she is
petting him up as if he was a baby!"

When the fly was announced, and Castalia left the little drawing-room to
put on her cloak and bonnet, Mrs. Errington drew near to her son and
whispered to him solemnly, "Algy, there is something very strange about
your wife. I never saw such a changed creature within the last few
weeks. Don't you think you should have some one to see her?--some
professional person I mean? I fear that her brain is affected!"

"Good gracious, mother! Another lunatic? You are getting to have a
monomania on that subject yourself!" Algernon laughed as he said it.

"My dear, there may be two persons afflicted in the same way, may there
not? But I said nothing about lunatics, Algy. Only--really, I think some
temporary disturbance of the brain is going on. I do, indeed."

"Pooh, pooh! Nonsense, ma'am! But it is odd enough that you are the
second person who has made that agreeable suggestion to me within a
fortnight. Poor Cassy! That's all she gets by her airs and her temper."

"Another person, was there?"

"Yes; it was little Miss Chubb, and----"

"Miss Chubb! Upon my word, I think that Miss Chubb was guilty of taking
a considerable liberty in suggesting anything of the kind about the
Honourable Mrs. Ancram Errington!"

"Oh, I don't know about liberty; but, of course, I laughed at her; and,
of course, you will too, if she says anything of the kind to you."

"I shall undoubtedly check her pretty severely if she attempts anything
of the sort with me! Miss Chubb, indeed!"

The consequence was, that Mrs. Errington went about among her Whitford
friends elaborately contradicting and denying "the innuendos spread
abroad about her daughter-in-law by certain presumptuous and gossiping
persons;" and thus brought the suggestion before many who would not
otherwise have heard of it. All which, of course, surprised and annoyed
Algernon very much, who had, naturally, not expected anything of the
sort from his mother's well-known tact and discretion.




CHAPTER X.


One dreary Sunday afternoon, about this time--that is to say, about the
end of November--Matthew Diamond rang at the bell of Mr. Maxfield's
door. He had a couple of books under his arm, and he asked the servant,
who admitted him, if she could give him back the volume he had last lent
to Miss Maxfield. Sally looked askance at the books as she took them
from his hand, and shook her head doubtfully.

"It's one o' them French books, isn't it, sir? I don't know one from
another. Would you please step upstairs yourself? Miss Rhoda's in the
drawing-room."

Diamond went upstairs and tapped at the door of the sitting-room.

"Come in," said a soft, sweet voice, that seemed to him the most
deliciously musical he had ever heard, and he entered.

The old room looked very different from what it had looked in the days
when Matthew Diamond used to come there to read Latin and history with
Algernon Errington. There were still the clumsy beams in the low
ceiling, and the old-fashioned cushioned seats in the bay-window, but
everything else was changed. A rich carpet covered the floor; there were
handsome hangings, and a couch, and a French clock on the chimney-piece;
there was a small pianoforte in the room, too; and, at one end, a
bookcase well filled with gaily-bound books. These things were the
products of old Max's money. But there were evidences about the place of
taste and refinement, which were due entirely to Rhoda. She had got a
stand of hyacinths like those in Miss Bodkin's room. She had softened
and hidden the glare of the bright, brand-new upholstery by dainty bits
of lacework spread over the couch and the chairs; and she had, with some
difficulty, persuaded her father to substitute for two staring coloured
French lithographs, which had decked the walls, a couple of good
engravings after Italian pictures. There was a fire glowing redly in the
grate, and the room was warm and fragrant. Rhoda was curled up on the
window-seat, with a book in her hand, and bending down her pretty head
over it, until the soft brown curls swept the page.

Diamond stood still for a moment in the doorway, admiring the graceful
figure well defined against the light.

"Come in, Sally," said Rhoda. And then she looked up from her book and
saw him.

"I'm afraid I disturb you!" said Diamond. "But the maid told me to come
up."

"Oh no! I was just reading----"

"Straining your eyes by this twilight! That's very wrong."

"Yes! I'm afraid it is not very wise, but I wanted to finish the
chapter; and my eyes are really very strong."

"I thought you might be at church," said Diamond, seating himself on the
opposite side of the bay-window, and within its recess, "so I asked the
maid to get me the book I wanted. But she sent me upstairs."

"Aunt Betty is at church, and James; but father wouldn't let me go. He
said it was so raw and foggy, and I had been to church this morning."

"Yes; I saw you there. But have you not been well, that your father did
not wish you to go out?"

"Oh yes; I'm very well, thank you. But I had a little cold last week;
and I should have had to walk to St. Chad's and back, you know. Father
doesn't think it right to drive on the Lord's day, so he made me stay at
home."

"How very right of him! What were you reading?"

He drew a little nearer to her as he asked the question, and looked at
the book she held.

"Oh, it's a Sunday book," said Rhoda, simply. "'The Pilgrim's Progress.'
I like it very much."

"I wonder whether you will care to hear of some good news I had to-day?"

"Oh yes; I shall be very glad to hear it."

"I think I stand a good chance of getting the head-mastership of
Dorrington Proprietary School. Dorrington is in the next county, you
know."

"Oh! I'm very glad."

"It would be a very good position. I am not certain of it yet, you know;
but Dr. Bodkin has been very friendly, and has promised to canvass the
governing committee for me."

"Oh! I'm very glad indeed."

"I don't know yet myself whether I am very glad or not."

"Don't you?"

Rhoda looked up at him in genuine surprise; but her eyes fell before the
answering look they encountered, and she blushed from brow to chin.

"No; it all depends on you, Rhoda, whether I am glad of it to the bottom
of my heart, or whether I give it all up as a thing not worth striving
for."

There was a pause, which Rhoda broke at length, because the silence
embarrassed her unendurably.

"Oh, I don't think it can depend upon me, Mr. Diamond," she said,
speaking in a little quivering voice that was barely audible; whilst, at
the same time, she hurriedly turned over the pages of "The Pilgrim's
Progress" with her eyes fixed on them, although she assuredly did not
see one letter. Diamond gently drew the book from her hand and took the
hand in his own.

"Yes, Rhoda," he said--and, having once called her so, his lips seemed
to dwell lovingly on the sound of her name--"I think you do know! You
must know that, if I look forward hopefully and happily to anything in
my future life, it is only because I have a hope that you may be able to
love me a little. I love you so much."

She trembled violently, but did not withdraw her hand from his clasp.
She sat quite still with downcast eyes, neither moving nor looking to
the right or the left.

"Rhoda! Rhoda! Won't you say one word to me?"

"I'm trying--thinking what I ought to say,'" she answered, almost in a
whisper.

"Is it so difficult, Rhoda?"

She made a strong effort to command her voice, but she had not the
courage to look full at him as she answered, "Yes; it is very difficult
for me. I want to do right, Mr. Diamond. I want not to deceive you."

"I am very sure that you will not deceive me, Rhoda!"

"Not if I can help it. But it is so hard to say just the exact truth."

"I don't find it hard to say the exact truth to you. You may believe me
implicitly, Rhoda, when I say that I love you with all my heart, and
will do my best to make you happy if you will let me."

"I do believe you. I believe you are really fond of me. Only--of course
you are much cleverer and wiser than I am, except in thinking too much
of me--and you can say just whatever is in your mind. But I can't; not
all at once."

"I will wait, Rhoda. I will have patience, and not distress you."

The tears were falling down her cheeks now, not from sorrow, but from
sheer agitation. She thanked him by a gesture of her head, and drew her
hand away from his very gently, and wiped her eyes. He could not command
himself at sight of her tears, although he had resolved not to speak
again until she should be calm and ready to hear him.

"My darling," he said, clasping his hands together and looking at her
with eyes full of anxious compassion, "don't cry! Is it my fault? You
must have had some knowledge of what was in my heart to say to you! I
have not startled you and taken you by surprise?"

"No; that's just it, Mr. Diamond. It's that that makes me feel so afraid
of doing wrong and deceiving you. I--I--have thought for some time past
that you were getting to like me very much. Some one said so too. But
yet I couldn't do anything, could I? I couldn't say, 'Don't get fond of
me, Mr. Diamond!'"

"It would have been quite in vain to say, 'Don't get fond of me.' I'm a
desperately obstinate man, Rhoda!"

"So then I--I mean to tell you the exact truth, you know, as well as I
can. I began to think whether I liked you very much."

"Well, Rhoda?"

There was a rather long silence.

"Well, I thought--yes, I did."

He clasped his arms round her with a sudden impetuous movement, but she
held him off with her two hands on his shoulders. "No, but please
listen! I did love somebody else once very much. Of course we were very
young, and it was nonsense. But I did wrong in being secret, and keeping
it from father. And I never want to be secret any more. And--though I do
like you very much, and--and--I should be very sorry if you went
away--yet it isn't quite the same that I felt before. That is the truth
as well as I can say it, and I am very grateful to you for thinking so
well of me."

He drew the young head with its soft shining chestnut curls down on to
his breast, and pressed his lips to her cheek.

"Now you are mine, my very own--are you not, Rhoda?"

"Yes; if you like, Mr. Diamond."

Matthew Diamond had been successful in his wooing, after feeling very
doubtful of success. And he should naturally have been elated in
proportion to his previous trepidation. And he was happy, of course; yet
scarcely with the fulness of joyful triumph he had promised himself if
pretty Rhoda should incline her ear to his suit. There was a subtle
flavour of disappointment in it all. Rhoda had behaved very well, very
honestly, in making that effort to be quite clear and candid about her
feelings. It was a great thing to be able to feel perfect confidence in
the woman who was to be his companion for life. And as to her loving him
with the same fervour he felt towards her, that was not to be expected.
He never had expected that. She was gentle, sweet, modest, thoroughly
feminine, and exquisitely pretty. She was willing to give herself to
him, and would doubtless be a true and affectionate wife. He held her
slight waist in his arm, and her head rested confidingly on his bosom.
Of course he was very happy. Only--if only Rhoda were not quite so
silent and cold; if she would say one little word of tenderness, or
even nestle herself fondly against his shoulder without speaking!

Some such thoughts were vaguely flitting through Diamond's mind when
Rhoda raised her head, and, emboldened by the gathering dusk, looked up
into his face and said, "You know it cannot be unless father consents."

"I shall speak to him this evening. Do you think he will be stern and
hard to persuade, Rhoda?"

"I don't know. He said once that he would like to--to--that he would
like to know I had some one to take care of me."

"On that score I am not afraid of falling short. Your father could give
his treasure to no man who would take more loving care of her than I!"

"And then you are a gentleman; and father thinks a great deal of that,
although he makes no pretence at being anything more than a tradesman
himself. And of course I am only a tradesman's daughter. I am greatly
below you in station--I know that."

"My Rhoda! As if there could be any question of that between us! God
knows I have been poor and obscure enough all my life. But now I shall
be able to tell your father that I hope to have a home to offer you that
will be at least not sordid, and the position of a lady."

"I hope you won't repent, Mr. Diamond."

"Repent! But, Rhoda, won't you call me by my name? Say Matthew, not Mr.
Diamond."

"Yes; I will if you like. But I'm afraid I can't all at once. It seems
so strange."

"I wish you liked my name one thousandth part as much as I love the
sound of yours! It seems so sweet to be able to call you Rhoda."

"Oh, I like your name very much indeed. But I think, please, that you
had better go now. The people are coming out of church, and Aunt Betty
may be back at any moment; and I don't wish her to find you here before
you have spoken to father."

Rhoda stood up as she said it, and Diamond had no choice but to rise
too, and say farewell. He drew her gently towards him and kissed her.
"Will you try to love me, Rhoda?" he said, in a tone of almost sad
entreaty. "Do you think you shall be able to love me a little?"

"I should not have accepted you if I felt that I could never be fond of
you," returned Rhoda, and a little flush spread itself over her face as
she spoke. "But you know I have told you the truth. I have told you
about----"

He put up his hand to check her. "Yes, yes; you have been quite candid
and honourable, and I won't be exacting or unreasonable, or too
impatient." He did not think he could endure to hear Rhoda, in her
anxiety not to deceive him, recapitulate the confession of her
"different feeling" for another man in days past; and yet he had known,
or guessed, that it had been so.

Then he took his leave, an accepted lover; and he told himself that he
was a very fortunate and happy man. As he passed the door of old Max's
little parlour downstairs, he saw a light gleaming under the door into
the almost dark passage. He stopped and tapped at the door. "Come in,"
said Jonathan Maxfield's harsh voice. And Diamond went into the
parlour.




CHAPTER XI.


Old Max looked up at his visitor over the great tortoise-shell
spectacles on his nose. He had a large Bible open on the table before
him. The large Bible was placed there every evening, and on Sunday
evenings any other mundane volume which might chance to be lying in the
parlour was carefully removed out of sight, to be restored to the light
of day on Monday morning. This was the custom of the house, and had been
so for years. It had obtained all through the Methodist days, and now
lasted under the new orthodox dispensation. Since old Max had his
spectacles on, it was to be supposed that he had been reading, and,
since there was no other printed document within sight, not even an
almanac, it was clear that he could have been reading nothing but his
Bible. And yet it was nearly an hour since he had turned the page before
him. He had been dozing, sitting up in his chair by the fire. This had
latterly become a habit with him whenever he was left alone in the
evening. And once, even, he had fallen into a sleep, or a stupor, in the
midst of the assembled family, and, on awaking, had been lethargic in
his movements, and dazed in his manner for some time.

He was quite awake now, however, as he peered sharply at Diamond over
his glasses. The latter found some little difficulty in beginning his
communication, not being assisted by a word from old Max, who stared at
him silently.

"I have a few words to say to you, Mr. Maxfield, if you are at leisure
to hear them," he said at length.

"If it's anything in the natur' of a business communication, I can't
attend to it now," returned old Max deliberately. "It has been a rule of
mine through life to transact no manner of business on the Lord's day,
and I have found it prosper with me."

"No, no; it is not a matter of business, Mr. Maxfield," said Diamond
smiling, but not quite at his ease. Then he sat down and told his
errand. Maxfield listened in perfect silence. "May I hope, Mr. Maxfield,
that you will give us your consent and approbation?" asked Diamond,
after a pause.

"You're pretty glib, sir! I must know a little more about this matter
before I can give an answer one way or another."

"You shall know all that I can tell you, Mr. Maxfield. Indeed, I do not
see what more I have to say. I have explained to you what my prospects
in life are. I have told you every particular with the most absolute
fulness and candour. As to my feeling for your daughter, I don't think I
could fully express that if I talked to you all night."

"What did my daughter say to you?"

"She--she told me that she was willing to be my wife, but that it must
depend upon your consent."

"Rhoda has always been a very dutiful daughter. There's not many like
Rhoda."

"I appreciate her, Mr. Maxfield. You may believe that I do most heartily
appreciate her. I have long known that all my happiness depended on
winning Rhoda for my wife. I have loved her long. But, of course, I
could not venture to ask her to marry me, or to ask you to give her to
me, until I had some prospect of a home to offer her."

"Ah! And this prospect, now--you aren't sure about it?"

"No; I am not quite sure."

"And, supposing you don't get the place--how then?"

"Why, then, Mr. Maxfield, I should look for another. If you will give
your consent to my engagement to Rhoda, I am not afraid of not finding
a place in the world for her. I have a fair share of resolution; I am
industrious and well educated; I am not quite thirty years old. If you
will give me a word of encouragement I shall be sure to succeed."

"Head-master of Dorrington Proprietary School, eh? Will that be a place
like Dr. Bodkin's?"

"Something of that kind, only not so lucrative."

"Dr. Bodkin is thought a good deal of in Whitford."

"Mr. Maxfield, may I hope for a favourable answer from you before I go?"

Old Max struck his hand sharply on the table as he exclaimed, almost
with a snarl, "I will not be hurried, sir! nor made to speak rashly and
without duly pondering and meditating my words." Then he added, in a
different tone, "You are glib, sir! mighty glib! Do you know what Miss
Maxfield will have to her portion--if I choose to give it her?"

"No, Mr. Maxfield, I do not. Nor do I care to know. I would take her to
my heart to-morrow if she would come, although she were the poorest
beggar in the world!"

"And would you take her without my consent?"

"I would, if you had no reasonable grounds for withholding it."

"You would steal my daughter away without my consent?"

"I said nothing about stealing. I should not think of deceiving you in
the matter. I think you must acknowledge that I am speaking to you
pretty frankly, at any rate!"

Maxfield could not but acknowledge to himself that the young man was
honest and straightforward, and spoke fairly. He was well-looking too,
and had the air of a gentleman, although there was not a trace about him
of the peculiar airy elegance, the graceful charm of face and figure,
which made Algernon Errington so attractive. Neither had he Algernon's
gift of flattery, so adroitly conveyed as to appear unconscious;
nor--what might, under the present circumstances, have served him
equally well with the old tradesman--Algernon's good-humoured way of
taking for granted his own incontestable social superiority over the
Whitford grocer. Maxfield had his doubts as to whether this young man,
ex-usher at the Grammar School, a fellow who went about to people's
houses and gave lessons for money, could prove to be a fine enough match
for his Rhoda, even though he should become head-master at
Dorrington--Maxfield had so set his heart on seeing Rhoda "made a lady
of," in the phraseology of his class.

"I shall have some conversation with my daughter, and let you have my
answer after that, sir," said he, looking half sullenly, half
thoughtfully at the suitor. "And as there will be questions of figures
to go into, maybe, I am not willing to consider the subject more at
length on the Lord's day."

But I am bound to confess that this was an afterthought on old Max's
part.

When Diamond had gone, the old man sent for his daughter to come to him
in the parlour. "You can take yourself off, Betty Grimshaw," said he to
that respectable spinster, very unceremoniously. "You and James can bide
in the kitchen till supper's ready. When it is, come and tell me."

Rhoda came, in answer to her father's summons, very calmly. She had, of
course, expected it. She had quite got over the agitation of the
interview with her lover, and was her usual sweet, placid self again.
Yes; she said Mr. Diamond had asked her to marry him, and she was
willing to marry him if her father would consent. She believed Mr.
Diamond loved her very much, and she liked him very much. She had been
afraid of him once because he was so very learned and clever, and seemed
rather proud and stern. But he was really extremely gentle when you came
to know him. She was sure he would be kind to her.

"It's not a thing to decide upon all in a moment, Rhoda," said her
father.

"No, father; but I have thought of it for some time past," answered
Rhoda, simply.

The old man looked at her with a slight feeling of surprise. "Rhoda has
a vast deal of common sense," thought he. "She has some of my brains
inside that pretty brown head of hers, that is so like her poor
mother's!" Then he said aloud, "You see, this Mr. Diamond is nobody
after all. A schoolmaster! Well, that's no great shakes."

"Dr. Bodkin is a schoolmaster, father."

"Dr. Bodkin is rector of St. Chad's and D.D., and a man of substance
besides."

"Mr. Diamond is a gentleman, father. Everybody allows that."

"Do you think you could be happy to be his wife, Rhoda?" As he asked
this question her father's voice was almost tender, and he placed his
hand gently on her head.

"Yes, father; I think so. He would take care of me, and be good to me,
and guide me right. And he would never put himself between you and me,
father. I mean he would wish me always to be dutiful and affectionate to
you."

"Well, Rhoda, we must consider. And I hope the Lord will send me wisdom
in the matter. I would fain see thee happy before I am called away. God
bless thee, child."

Jonathan Maxfield turned the matter in his mind during the watches of
the night with much anxious consideration, according to his lights. In
social status there was truly not much to complain of, he thought. A man
in a position like that of Dr. Bodkin, who should have money of his own
(or of his wife's) to render him independent of the profits of his
place, might come to be a personage of importance. "And money there will
be; more'n they think for," said old Max to himself. "The young man
seemed to worship Rhoda; as he ought." She had shown herself to be very
dutiful, very honest, very sensible on this occasion. "He's out and away
a better man than that t'other one! Lives clear and clean before the
world, and is ashamed to look no man in the face."

Thus old Max reflected. And it will be seen that his reflections tended
more and more to favour the acceptance of Matthew Diamond as his
son-in-law. Yes; he should be glad to see Rhoda safe and happy under a
husband's care before he died. And yet--and yet--he felt, as the
prosperous wooer had felt, a dim sense of dissatisfaction. Old Max could
not be accused of being sentimental, but he had looked forward to
Rhoda's marriage as an occasion of triumph and exultation. If she found
a husband whom he approved of, he would be large and generous in his
dealings with them. He would show the world that Rhoda Maxfield was no
tocherless lass, but an heiress, courted, and sought after, and destined
to belong to a sphere far above that of Whitford shopkeepers. Now the
husband had been found--he had almost made up his mind as to that--but
there was no exultation; certainly no triumph. Rhoda was so cool and
quiet. Very sensible! Oh, admirably sensible; but----. In a word, the
whole affair seemed a little flat and chilly. Of all the three
personages chiefly interested, Rhoda was the only one who was conscious
of no disappointment.




CHAPTER XII.


Miss Chubb could keep a secret. She was proud of being entrusted with
one. She was much gratified when Rhoda Maxfield, on the Monday after
Diamond's proposal, called at the maiden lady's modest lodgings, and
confided to her the fact that Mr. Diamond had asked her to marry him,
and that she had accepted him subject to her father's consent. It may
seem strange that Rhoda should have chosen to make this confidence to
Miss Chubb, rather than to Mrs. Errington, or to Minnie Bodkin, with
both of whom she was more intimate. But she told Miss Chubb that she
wanted her help.

"My help, my dear! I'm sure I don't know how I can help you. But if I
can I will. And I congratulate you sincerely. I've seen how it would be
all along. You know I told you that a certain gentleman was falling over
head and ears in love, a long time ago. Didn't I, now?"

Rhoda acknowledged that it was so; and then she said she had come to ask
a great favour. Would Miss Chubb mind saying a word or two on Mr.
Diamond's behalf to her father? "Father told me this morning, after
breakfast, that he should make some inquiries about Mr. Diamond. I am
quite sure that nothing will come out that is not honourable to him; I
am not the least afraid of that. And I believe Dr. Bodkin will praise
him very highly, but he will not perhaps say the sort of things that
would please father most. He will tell him what a good scholar he is,
and all that, but he will never think of making father understand that
Mr. Diamond is looked upon as being as much a gentleman as he is
himself. Gentlefolks like Dr. Bodkin take those things for granted. But
father would like to be told them. He thinks so very much of my
marrying--above my own class, for, of course, I have learnt enough to
know that Mr. Diamond belongs to a different sort of people from mine."

"I understand, my dear," returned Miss Chubb, nodding her head shrewdly.
"And you may depend on my doing my best, if I have the chance. But I'm
afraid it is not likely that Mr. Maxfield will consult me on the
subject."

"I told him to come to you. Father knows you are one of the few people
with whom Mr. Diamond has associated in Whitford."

"Why don't you send him to Mrs. Errington? Oh, I forgot! Your father and
she are two." Miss Chubb laughed to cover a little confusion on her own
part, for she guessed that Rhoda might have other reasons for not asking
Mrs. Errington's testimony in favour of her suitor. Then she added
quickly, "Or Minnie Bodkin, now! Minnie's word would go farther with
your father than mine would. And Minnie and Mr. Diamond are such
cronies. You had better send him to Minnie."

"No, thank you."

"But why not? Good gracious, she is the very person!"

"No, I think not. We don't wish it known until father has given his
decided consent. I have only told you in confidence, Miss Chubb."

"But--if the doctor knows it, Minnie must know it! And if I know it, why
shouldn't she?"

"No, thank you. I don't want to ask Miss Minnie about it."

"I wonder why that is, now!" pondered Miss Chubb, when Rhoda was gone.
And very probably Rhoda could not have told her why.

Old Maxfield duly paid his visit to Miss Chubb. The good-natured little
woman waited at home all day lest she should miss him. And about an hour
after her early dinner Mr. Maxfield sent in his respects, and would be
glad to have a word with her if she were at leisure.

"I hope you will overlook the intrusion, ma'am," said Maxfield, standing
up with his hat in his hand, just inside the door of the little
sitting-room, where Miss Chubb asked him to walk in.

"No intrusion at all, Mr. Maxfield! I'm very glad to see you. Please to
sit down."

He obeyed, and holding his thick stick upright before him, and his hat
on his knees, he thus began:

"I'm not a-going to waste your time and mine with vain and worldly
discourse, ma'am. I am a man as knows the value of time, thanks be! And
I have a serious matter on my mind. You know my daughter Rhoda?"

"I know Rhoda, and like her, and admire her very much."

"Yes; Rhoda is a girl such as you don't see many like her. There's a
young man seeking her in marriage."

"I'm not surprised at that!"

"No; there has been several others too. But she gave 'em no
encouragement; nor should I have been willing that she should. Some of
them were persons in my own rank of life, and that would not do for
Rhoda."

"I think you are quite right there, Mr. Maxfield. Rhoda is naturally
very refined, and she has associated a good deal with persons of
cultivated manners. I don't think Rhoda would be happy if she were
obliged to give up certain little graces of life, which a great many
excellent people can do without perfectly well."

Maxfield nodded approvingly. "You speak with a good deal of judgment,
ma'am," said he, with the air of a recognised authority on wisdom. "But
it isn't only that. Rhoda will have money--a great deal of money--more
than some folks that holds their heads very high ever had or will have.
Now it is but just and rightful that I should expect her husband to
bring some advantages in return."

"Of course. And--ahem!--I'm sure you are too sensible a man not to
consider that the best thing a husband could bring in exchange would be
an honest, loving heart, and a real esteem and respect for your
daughter."

Little Miss Chubb became quite fluttered after making this speech, and
coloured as if she had been a girl of eighteen.

"Not at all," returned old Max decisively. "The loving heart and the
esteem and respect are due to my Rhoda if she hadn't a penny. In return
for her fortin' I expect something over and above."

"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Chubb, a good deal taken aback.

"Now I don't feel sure that the young man in question has that something
over and above. It is Mr. Matthew Diamond, tutor at the Grammar School
in this town."

"A most excellent young man! And, I'm sure, most devotedly in love with
Rhoda."

"But very poor, and not of much account in the world, as far as I can
make out."

"Oh, don't say that, Mr. Maxfield! He is proud and shy, and has kept
himself aloof from society because he chose to do so. But he would be a
welcome guest anywhere in the town or county. Young Mr. Pawkins, of
Pudcombe Hall, quite courts him; he is always asking him to go over
there."

Thus much and more Miss Chubb valiantly spoke on behalf of Matthew
Diamond in his character of Rhoda's wooer. And then she expatiated on
the excellent position he would hold as master of Dorrington School. It
was such a "select seminary;" and so many of the first county people
sent their boys there. "Dear me," said Miss Chubb, "it seems to me to be
the very position for Rhoda! Not too far from Whitford, and yet not too
near--of course she couldn't keep up all her old acquaintances here,
could she?--and altogether so refined, and scholastic, and quiet! And
really, Mr. Maxfield, see how everything turns out for the best. I
thought at one time that young Errington was very much smitten with
Rhoda; but, if she had taken him, you wouldn't have been so satisfied
with her position in life now, would you? With all his talent and
connection, see what a poor place he has of it. Mr. Diamond has done
best, ten to one."

This was a master-stroke, and made a great impression on old Max. Not
that the latter even now was at all dazzled by the prospect of having
the head-master of Dorrington School for his son-in-law. But Miss
Chubb's allusion did suffice to show him that the world would consider
Diamond to be a triumphantly successful man in comparison with
Errington.

"Oh, him!" said Maxfield in a tone of bitter contempt. "No; such as him
was not for Miss Maxfield. And I'll tell you, moreover, that I don't
know but what she's throwing herself away more or less if she takes this
other. She's a great catch for him; I know the world, and I know that
she is a great catch. But I've felt latterly one or two warnings that my
end is near----"

"Dear me, Mr. Maxfield! Don't say so! I'm sure you look very hearty!"
exclaimed Miss Chubb, much startled by this cool announcement.

"That my end is near," repeated old Max doggedly, "and I wish to set my
house in order, and see my daughter provided for, before I go. And she
seems to be contented with this young man. Rhoda ain't just easy to
please. It might be a long time, if ever, before she found some one to
suit her so well."

Miss Chubb was a little shocked at this singularly prosaic and
unemotional way of treating the subject of love and marriage, as to
which she herself preserved the most romantic freshness of ideas. She
would have liked the young couple to be like the lovers in a story-book,
and the father to bestow his daughter and his blessing with tears of
joy. However, she did her best to encourage Mr. Maxfield in giving his
consent after his own fashion, and they parted on excellent terms with
each other.

"That dry old chip, Jonathan Maxfield, has been to me to-day," said Dr.
Bodkin after dinner to his wife and daughter. "He came to ask me what
prospect I thought Diamond had of getting the mastership of Dorrington,
explaining to me that Diamond was a suitor for his daughter's hand. It
took me quite by surprise. Had you any inkling of the matter, Minnie?"

"Oh yes, papa."

"Dear me! Well, women see these things so quickly! H'm! Well, Master
Diamond has shown good taste, I must say. That little Rhoda is the
prettiest girl I know. And such a sweet, soft, lovable creature! I think
she's too good for him."

"It is a singular thing, but I have remarked very often that men in
general are apt to think pretty girls too good for anybody but
themselves!"

The doctor frowned, and then smiled. "Have you so, Saucebox?" he said.

"I don't know about her being too good for him," said Mrs. Bodkin, in
her quick, low tones; "but I suppose he knows very well what he is
about. Old Maxfield has feathered his nest very considerably. It will be
a very good match for a poor man like Matthew Diamond."

Mrs. Bodkin had for some time past exhibited symptoms of dislike to
Diamond. She never had a good word for him; she even was almost
rancorous against him at times, although she seldom allowed the feeling
to express itself in words before her daughter. Minnie understood it all
very well. "Poor mother!" she thought to herself, "she cannot forgive
him. I wish I could persuade her that there is nothing to forgive. How
could he help it if I was a fool?" Yet the mother and daughter had never
exchanged a word on the subject. And Minnie comforted herself with the
conviction that her mother was the only person in the world who guessed
her secret. "Mamma has a sixth sense where I am concerned," said she to
herself.

"I hope you said a good word for the lovers to Mr. Maxfield, papa," she
said aloud, in a clear, cheerful voice.

"I had not much to say. I told him that I thought Diamond stood a good
chance of getting Dorrington School."

"When will it be known positively, papa?"

"About Dorrington? Oh, before Christmas. I should say by the end of the
first week in December. Diamond will be a loss to me, but I shall be
glad of his promotion. He's a gentleman, and a very good fellow,
although his manner is a trifle self-opiniated. And," added the doctor,
shaking his head and lowering his voice as one does who is forced to
admit a painful truth, "I am sorry to say that his views as to the use
of the Digamma are by no means sound."

"Perhaps Rhoda won't find that a drawback to her happiness!" said
Minnie, laughing her sweet, musical laugh.

"Probably not, Puss!"

Then the Rev. Peter Warlock and Mr. Dockett dropped in. A whist-table
was made up in the drawing-room. The doctor and Mr. Dockett won three
rubbers out of four against Mrs. Bodkin and the curate. And the
latter--being seated where he could command a full view of Minnie as she
reclined near the fire with a book--made two revokes, and drew down upon
himself a very severe homily and a practical lecture or short course on
the science of whist, illustrated by all the errors he had made during
the evening, from Dr. Bodkin. For the doctor, although he liked to win,
cared not for inglorious victory, and was almost as indignant with his
opponents as with his partner for any symptom of slovenly play. The
Reverend Peter's brow grew serious, even to gloom, and it seemed to him
as if the doctor's scolding were almost more than human patience could
endure. "I don't mind losing my sixpences," thought the curate, "and I
could make up my mind to sacrificing an hour or two over those
accursed," (I'm afraid he did mentally use that strong expression!)
"those thrice-accursed bits of pasteboard. But to be lectured and
scolded at into the bargain----!" He arose from the green table with an
almost defiant sullenness.

However, when the tray was brought in and the victimised gentleman had
comforted his inner man with hot negus, and was at liberty to sip it in
close proximity to Miss Bodkin's chair, and had received one or two kind
looks from Miss Bodkin's eyes, and several kind words from Miss Bodkin's
lips, his heart grew soft within him, and he began to think that even
six, ten--a dozen rubbers of whist with the doctor would not be too high
a price to pay for these privileges! Then they talked of Diamond's
engagement to Rhoda--it had been spoken of all over Whitford hours
ago!--and of his prospects. And Mr. Warlock was quite effusive in his
rejoicings on both scores. He had been dimly jealous of Minnie's regard
for Diamond, and was heartily glad of the prospect of getting rid of
him. Mr. Dockett, too, seemed to think the match a desirable one. He
pursed up his mouth and looked knowing as he dropped a mysterious hint
as to the extent of Rhoda's dowry. "I made old Max's will myself," said
he; "and without violating professional secrecy, I may confirm what I
hear old Max bruits abroad at every opportunity--namely, that he is a
warm man--a very warm man in--deed! But I'm sure Mr. Diamond is a young
man of sound principles, and will make the girl a good husband. And it
is decided promotion for her too, you know. A grocer's daughter! Eh? I'm
sure I wish them well most sincerely." And shall we blame Mr. Dockett
if, in his fatherly anxiety, he rejoiced at the removal of a dangerous
rival to his little Ally, on whom young Pawkins had recently bestowed a
good deal of attention whenever Rhoda Maxfield was out of his reach?

"I never knew such a popular engagement," said Dr. Bodkin, innocently.
"Everybody seems to approve! One might almost fear it could not be a
case of true love, it runs so very smooth. There does not appear to be a
single objection."

"Except the Digamma, papa!"

"Except the Digamma," echoed the doctor merrily. And when he was alone
with his wife that night, he remarked to her that he was immensely
thankful to see the great improvement in their beloved child this
winter.

"Minnie is certainly stronger," said the mother.

"And in such excellent spirits!" said the father.




CHAPTER XIII.


The days passed by and brought no letter, in answer to Castalia's, from
Lord Seely. Dreary were the hours in Ivy Lodge. The wife was devoured by
passionate jealousy and a vain yearning for affection; the husband found
that even the bright, smooth, hard metal of his own character was not
impervious to the corrosive action of daily cares, regrets, and
apprehensions. Algernon was not apt to hate. He usually perceived the
absurd side of persons who were obnoxious to him with too keen an
amusement to detest them; and the inmost feeling of his heart with
respect to his fellow-creatures in general approached, perhaps, as
nearly to perfect indifference as it is given to a mortal to attain. But
it was not possible to preserve a condition of indifference towards
Castalia. She was a thorn in his flesh, a mote in his eye, a weariness
to his spirit; and he began to dislike the very sight of the sallow,
sickly face, red-eyed too often, and haggard with discontent, that met
his view whenever he was in his own home. It was the daily "worry" of
it, he told himself, that was unendurable. It was the being shut up with
her in a box like Ivy Lodge, where there was no room for them to get
away from each other. If he could have shared a mansion in Grosvenor
Square with Castalia he might have got on with her well enough! But
then, that mansion in Grosvenor Square would have made so many things
different in his life.

At length one day came a letter to Castalia, with the London post-mark
and sealed with the well-known coat of arms, but it did not bear Lord
Seely's frank. Another name was scrawled in the corner, and the
direction was written in Lady Seely's crooked, cramped little
characters.

"I'm afraid Uncle Val must be ill!" exclaimed Castalia, opening the
letter with a trembling hand. She was so weak and nervous now that the
most trifling agitation made her heart beat painfully. My lady's epistle
was not long, and, as a knowledge of its contents is essential to the
due comprehension of this story, it is given in full, with her
ladyship's own phraseology and orthography:--

     "MY DEAR CASTALIA,--I cannot think what on earth you are about
     to write such letters to your uncle. Go abroad, indeed! I
     suppose Ancram would like the embassy to St. Petersburg, or to
     be governor of the Ionian Islands. It's all nonsense, and you
     had better put such ideas out of your head at once, and for
     all. I should think you might know that we have other people to
     think of besides your husband, especially after all we have
     done for him. Your uncle is very ill in bed with an attack of
     the gout, and can't write himself. The doctor thinks he won't
     be about again for weeks. You can guess what trouble this
     throws on to my shoulders, so I hope you won't worry me by any
     more such letters as the last. As if there was not anxiety
     enough, Fido had a fit on Thursday. I hope you are pretty well.
     What a blessing you've no sign of a family. With only you two
     to keep, you ought to do very well on Ancram's salary, and you
     can tell him I say so. Yours affectionately,

     "B. SEELY."

"Poor Uncle Val!" exclaimed Castalia, dropping the letter from her hand.
"I was afraid he was ill."

"Pshaw! A touch of the gout won't kill him," said Algernon, who had been
reading over her shoulder. "But it's deuced unfortunate for me that he
should be laid up at this time, and quite helpless in the hands of that
old catamaran."

"Poor Uncle Val! Perhaps he never got my letter at all."

"Nothing more likely, if my lady could prevent his getting it."

"Perhaps, when he gets better, I can write to him again, and ask
him----"

"When he gets better? Oh yes, certainly. We have plenty of time. There
is no hurry, of course!"

"I see that you are speaking satirically, Ancram, but I don't know why."

Her husband shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room. As he
left the house he was met at the garden-gate by a bright-eyed,
consumptive-looking lad, in shabby working clothes, who touched his cap,
and held out a paper to Algernon. "What do you want?" asked the latter.
"Mr. Gladwish, sir. His account, if you please, sir."

"And who the devil is Mr. Gladwish?"

"The shoemaker, sir."

"Oh! Mr. Gladwish, then, is an extremely importunate, impatient,
troublesome fellow. This is the third or fourth time within a very few
weeks that he has sent in his bill. I'm not accustomed to that sort of
thing. I don't understand it. Don't give me the paper, boy. Take it into
the house."

"Please, sir," began the lad, and stopped, hesitatingly. Then seeing
that Mr. Errington was walking off without taking any further notice of
him, he repeated in a louder, firmer tone, "Please, sir, Mr. Gladwish is
really in want of the money. He has two of the children bad with fever.
And I was to say that even five pounds on account would be acceptable."

"Five pounds! He's too modest. I haven't got five pounds, nor five
minutes. I'm busy."

"Then, I'm sorry to say, sir, that Mr. Gladwish will take legal
proceedings for the debt at once. He told me to tell you so."

"Nice state of things!" muttered Algernon, as he walked towards the
post-office, with his head bent down and his hands deep in his pockets.
"But that's nothing. It's those cursed bills in Maxfield's hands that
are on my mind like lead."

His spirits were not lightened by that which awaited him at the office.
He had to undergo an interview with the district surveyor, who was very
grave, not to say severe, in speaking of the irregularities which had
been complained of, and were looked on as very serious at the head
office. The surveyor ended by plainly hinting his hope that persons
having no business at the office would be strictly forbidden from having
access to it at abnormal hours. "I--I don't understand you," stammered
Algernon.

"Mr. Errington," said the surveyor, "I am speaking to you, not
officially, but confidentially, and as man to man. I have been having a
little conversation with Mr. Gibbs--who seems to have none but good
feeling towards you, but who--in short, I think it is not needful to be
more explicit. I advise you in all friendliness to be stern and decisive
in keeping every person out of this office except such as have
recognised business to be here. If further trouble arises, I shall have
to do my duty, and make my report without respect of any persons
whatsoever."

"Perhaps," said Algernon, who was white to his lips, but otherwise
apparently unmoved, "perhaps it would be best for me to resign my post
here at once. If the authorities above me find cause for
dissatisfaction----"

"I can give you no advice as to that, Mr. Errington. You must know your
own affairs better than I do."

"There are things which a man can scarcely say even to himself;
considerations which are painful as they float dimly in one's own mind,
but which would be unendurable uttered aloud in words. Anything like a
public scandal--or--or--disgrace to me, would involve a large circle of
persons--many of them persons of rank and consideration in the world.
You are possibly aware that--my wife"--there was a peculiar tone in
Algernon's voice as he said these two words--"is a niece of Lord
Seely?"

But the official gentleman declined to enter into the question of Mr.
Errington's family connections. "Oh," said he, coldly; "we must hope
there will be no question of scandal or disgrace." Then he went away,
leaving Algernon in a chaos of doubt as to whether he should, or should
not, speak further on the subject to Obadiah Gibbs. Obadiah Gibbs,
however, decided the question for him. He came into Algernon's room,
closing the door carefully behind him, and asked to speak a few words in
private. Algernon was sitting in the luxurious easy-chair which he had
had carried into the office for his own use. It was about three o'clock
in the afternoon of a dull November day. The single window which looked
on to a white-washed court threw a ghastly pallid light on Algernon's
face as he sat opposite to it, with his head thrown back against the
cushions of the high chair. Mr. Gibbs was touched with compassion at
seeing how changed the bright young face looked since he had first been
acquainted with it. And yet, in truth, the change was not a very deep
one: it was more in colouring, and the expression of the moment, than in
any lines which care had graven.

"Come in, Gibbs; come in," said Algernon, with his affable air. The
clerk seemed the more anxious and disturbed of the two. He sat down on
the chair Algernon pointed out to him in a constrained posture, and
seemed to have some difficulty in beginning to speak, albeit not a man
usually liable to embarrassment of manner. His superior stretched his
feet out nearer to the hearth, and slightly moved his white hand to and
fro, looking, as a child might have done, at the glitter of a ring he
wore in the firelight.

"Mr. Wing did not seem very well pleased, sir," said Gibbs, after
clearing his throat.

"Of course he had to appear displeased, whether he was or not, Gibbs. A
little hocus-pocus, a little official solemnity, is the thing to assume,
I suppose. I think that man's nose is the very longest I ever saw.
Remarkable nose, eh, Gibbs?"

"But, sir," continued Gibbs, declining to discuss the surveyor's nose,
"he said that from inquiries that had been made, it's pretty certain
that the missing letters were--stolen--they must have been stolen--at
Whitford."

"Very intelligent on the part of the official, Mr. Wing! Only I think
you and I had come to pretty nearly the same conclusion before."

"He made strict inquiries about the people in the office here, and I had
to give him what information I could, sir."

"Of course, of course, Gibbs! I quite understand," said Algernon,
putting his hand out to shake that of the clerk with so frank a
cordiality that the latter felt the tears spring into his eyes as he
took the cool white hand into his own. "I have felt very much for you,
Mr. Errington," said he. "Your position is a trying one, indeed. I would
do almost anything in my power to set your mind more at rest. But I'm
sorry to say that I have an unpleasant matter to speak of."

"I wonder," thought Algernon, leaning back in his chair once more,
"whether my friend Obadiah conceives our conversation hitherto to have
been of an agreeable and entertaining nature, that he now announces
something unpleasant by way of a change!"

"You will understand," said Gibbs, "that I am speaking to you in the
very strictest confidence. I should be sorry for it to come out that I
had meddled in the matter. Nor, sir, would it be well for you to have it
known that I gave you any warning."

"I wish the old bore would not be so confoundedly long-winded!" thought
Algernon, nodding meanwhile with an air of thoughtful attention.

But Gibbs was prone to long-windedness and to the making of speeches.
And he now availed himself of the opportunity of haranguing the
postmaster (one of whose chief faults was a vivacious impatience of his
clerk's eloquence) to the fullest extent. But the gist of what he had to
say was this: Roger Heath, the man whose money-letter had been lost,
now declared that his correspondent at Bristol, being interrogated in
the hope that he might be able to furnish some clue to the
identification of the missing notes, stated that he remembered one was
endorsed in blue ink instead of black: and that he, Heath, had reason to
know that one of the notes paid by young Mrs. Errington to Ravell, the
mercer, had been endorsed in blue ink!

"Now, sir," proceeded Gibbs, "I remember its being a good deal talked of
in the town at the time, that young Mrs. Errington had money unknown to
you, and Mrs. Ravell spoke of it to many."

"Damn Mrs. Ravell! What does it all mean, Gibbs?"

Algernon got up from his chair, and leant his elbows on the
chimney-piece, and hid his face in his hands, but he so stood that he
could watch the clerk's countenance between his fingers. That
countenance expressed trouble and compassion. Gibbs got up too, and
stood looking at Algernon and shaking his head ruefully.

"I thought it well you should know what was being said, Mr. Errington,"
said he.

"What can I do, Gibbs? How can I stop their cursed tongues?" Algernon
still spoke with his face hidden.

"No, sir, you cannot stop their tongues, but--you might possibly put a
stop to what sets their tongues going. Of course, the matter may be all
explained simply enough. There may be plenty of bank-notes endorsed in
blue ink----"

"Of course there may! Chattering idiots!"

"And as to that particular note, Mr. Ravell paid it away, as well as the
others Mrs. Errington gave him, to the agent of a Manchester house he
deals with, the next day after it came into his hands. I ascertained
that from Ravell himself."

"I'll have the note traced!" exclaimed Algernon, looking up for the
first time.

"That would be a difficult matter, sir. It has gone far and wide before
now."

"I tell you I will have it traced! And I will have that malignant
scoundrel, Heath, pulled up pretty sharply, if he dares to make any more
insinuations that----it is not difficult to see what he is driving at!"

Gibbs laid his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"I feel for you, Mr. Errington," he said. "If I did not, I shouldn't put
myself in the disagreeable position of saying what I have said. I should
have attended to my own business, and let matters take their course. I
hope you believe that I had only a kind motive in speaking?"

"I do believe it--heartily!"

"Thank you, sir. Then I shall make bold to give you one word of advice.
Don't stir in the matter, nor make any threats against any one, until
you have ascertained from Mrs. Errington where she got the notes that
she paid to Ravell."

Algernon had bent down his head again, and he now answered without
looking up:

"No doubt Mrs. Errington can account for them to me, but she is not
bound to do so to any one else. Nor can I allow any one to hint that she
is so bound. I should be a blackguard if I could listen to a word of
that sort."

"I hope it may come right, Mr. Errington. After all, there has been
nothing, and, so far as I see, there can be nothing, but talk to hurt
you."

"My good fellow," said Algernon, as he once more gave his hand to his
clerk, "it's a kind of talk which poisons a man's life. You know that as
well as I do."

Then Gibbs took his leave of his superior, and went back into the outer
office to watch over the epistolary correspondence of Whitford. As he
sat at his desk there his mind was full of sympathy with Algernon
Errington. "Poor young man! He took it beautifully. It must be a
terrible blow--an awful blow. But, no doubt, he has had his suspicions
before now. What a warning against worldly-mindedness! He is a victim to
that vain and godless woman; and that's all that comes of the marriage
that so uplifted the heart of his mother. But he would be a beautiful
character, if he had only got religion, and would leave off profane
swearing. He is so guileless and outspoken, like a child, almost. Ah,
poor young man! I hope the Lord may bless this trial to him.
But--religion or no religion--I don't believe he'll ever be fit to be
postmaster of Whitford." Thus ran the reflections of Mr. Obadiah Gibbs.

When Algernon reached home that evening, he bade Lydia put up a few
things for him into a little travelling valise; and when he met his wife
at the dinner-table, he told her he should go up to London that night by
the mail-coach. He explained, in answer to her surprised inquiries

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/35430